


Convergence and Dispersals

by Ebyru



Category: Heroes - Fandom, Supernatural, X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst and Humor, Banter, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M, Fluff, Het and Slash, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Character Death, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Alternating, Past Abuse, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 42,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebyru/pseuds/Ebyru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is the only one out of the loop. Then, when the secret Sam and Peter have been hiding comes out, he wishes he stayed the hell out of the loop. </p><p>Luckily, there’s a new supernatural creature that appears, and it keeps Dean company. Meanwhile, Sylar meets his polar opposite (and doesn’t quite hate him), Charles heals a broken bird, Hank gets his heart broken a few times, and a few strays end up at the Xavier mansion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Convergence and Dispersals

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to my artist [kymericl](http://kymericl.livejournal.com/33552.html) for the lovely banners. :D Follow the link to see the masterpost of all the pieces.
> 
> Thanks to my amazing betas as well: [game_byrd](http://game-byrd.livejournal.com/), [lornrocks](http://lornrocks.livejournal.com/), [miss_bagel](http://miss-bagel.livejournal.com/), [theendermen](http://theendermen.livejournal.com/), [undrscoredom2nd](http://undrscoredom2nd.livejournal.com/), [midorihaven](http://midorihaven.livejournal.com/) & [kimberlelly](http://kimberlelly.livejournal.com/)
> 
> *This was originally written for the 2011 NaNoWriMo, but I never finished it in time. I used the big_bigbang (on LJ) challenge to force myself to finish it - which I accomplished! :D
> 
> Also, all the chapters are not the same length. Some are very long, and others very short. Just thought you'd like to know.

by [trickylady](http://trickylady.livejournal.com)  &&  art by [kymericl](http://kymericl.livejournal.com)


	2. The Beginning of Something Unexpected

** **

 

“Are you ready, Charles?” Hank raises a brow questioningly, fitting the apparatus on Charles’s head snugly. “I mean, I can retest it with a simulator a few times if you’re not sure.”

“That’s quite all right.” Charles smiles, his blue eyes shining with his all-too-apparent excitement. “I’m ready, I assure you.”

“Okay then.”

Hank walks over to the computer, punching in a few equations, and returning to Charles’s side. He wouldn’t risk not being right there to turn it off should anything go wrong. Not that he doubts himself; it’s just a precaution.

The machine starts up with a _clang_ that inevitably startles them both. But then there are lights flashing on the part connected to Charles’s skull, and it seems to be working properly after all.

One moment Charles is smiling at Hank reassuringly, and the next his eyes are screwed shut so tight Hank’s heart leaps into his throat. Before Hank can panic too much, Charles’s eyes are open again, but he’s looking far beyond Hank now, and grabbing onto the safety bars within his reach to keep from toppling over.

“Are you okay?” Hank asks softly, worry sprinkled throughout his words.  “Should I stop Cerebro?”

“Is that what you’ve decided to call it?” Charles retorts playfully. “No, no, I’m fine. This—” He reaches over the bars, and clasps Hank gently on the shoulder. “This is amazing. I can feel them, so many of them. You’re brilliant.”

Hank beams at that; he’s still too modest for his own good. Charles tells him all the time.  “Just glad to hear it works.”

“It definitely wor— _wait_.” Charles’s brow creases, every line of his face suddenly tense. “There’s a mutant here. Or at least, I believe he’s a mutant.” Charles closes his eyes, gesturing in the air lightly. “Pen and paper. Write these coordinates, please.”

Hank listens, jotting down the numbers carefully. “Got them, Charles.”

“Good.” Charles squints, holding the bridge of his nose after taking off the helmet made to amplify his telepathic abilities. “That man…He’s quite possibly one of the most dangerous mutants I have ever encountered.” Charles sighs, stepping down from the platform where Cerebro is connected. “And if I’m not mistaken, he’s a continent away.”

Hank blinks rapidly, trying to process everything with the little information Charles has given him. “So you felt him from another country?”

“Exactly.” Charles smiles briefly, holding on to Hank for a moment. “He is in the United States.” He sucks in a few slow breaths, griping Hank’s arm. “Sorry, hope you don’t mind if I lean. I suddenly feel quite dizzy.”

“No, of course not.” Hank holds on to both of Charles’s shoulders gently, keeping him standing straight. “It’s the first time you used Cerebro so you’re not used to it.”

“Right.” Charles nods, then again to make it sink in. “But we don’t have time for me to get familiar with it. That man is a hazard and doesn’t seem to think highly of gifted beings like us.”

Hank’s eyes widen; he’s never heard Charles be anything but charming and calm when speaking of people with mutations. But now, with the distress clearly present in Charles’s eyes, this seems like a different Charles than the one Hank’s used to. Charles still appears calm, but Hank knows better—having known him for a few years—than to trust in appearances, especially since Charles is a master illusionist in his own fantastical way.

When Hank’s mind returns to the situation at hand, he realizes Charles has been talking and he hasn’t been paying attention.

“Did you hear any of that?” Charles pauses, two fingers pressed to his temple. “No, I see not. Well, no matter. We need to find him.” Charles’s words suggest both haste and urgency although his tone is still barely more than neutral.

“Okay, I’ll prepare the plane for us.” Hank steps away, brows knit together. “Can you stand on your own now?”

“Yes, it’s passed.” Charles leans against the metal bars at his back, smiling. “Thank you.”

Hank dips his head politely, and disappears out the door to start up the plane.


	3. Three Great Minds Meet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> past tense is a flashback; present tense is what's happening now. ;)  
> Hope you can keep up!

It’s always the same story; boy meets boy, boy doesn’t usually like boys but falls for other boy, then realizes that said boy likes another person—who also happens to be a boy, in this case—and withdraws his feelings. All three boys are only friends to one another in the end. And the story you come across may be more or less complex than that, more along the lines of heterosexuality, but it’s common enough and highly irritating either way.

 

\---

 

Hank was the youngest, smartest freshman at Oxford. He was accepted due to his praise-worthy average in high school, and offered a full scholarship with all the perks the school could provide (and they were _plentiful_ ). Once he arrived, though, he soon realized he wasn’t the only genius around.

 

One Charles Xavier, a respected senior at the school, assigned to be Hank’s mentor and guide, was brilliant in a very noticeable way. Although Hank was majoring in two subjects—biochemistry and genetics—he knew that Charles was the single most knowledgeable person to go to when he required an answer that the teachers couldn’t give him.

 

Charles knew everything, absolutely and in-depth, that had to do with genetics and mutation. (And sometimes it seemed he knew exactly what Hank was thinking, too.) To the same degree, Charles found Hank’s fresh, vast knowledge of science and genetics fascinating. But, unfortunately, so did Charles’s closest friend, _Sam Winchester_.

 

Sam Winchester, majoring in law, with his long, flowing hair, his sensitive hazel eyes, his chiseled body—Hank liked being thorough when observing his fellow students—his breathtaking smile, and abundance of kindness, was a man too hard to compete with.  

 

Despite being certain that Hank’s intellect would be a match, and even far surpassed Sam’s, he knew he just didn’t cut it in terms of physical appearance.

 

Charles didn’t seem to notice the way Hank always smiled a little wider when he glanced over at him. He didn’t recognize the many signals, the elaborate trail of bread crumbs Hank was leaving for him, too busy in his world of genetics and Sam _Sam_ **Sam**.

 

Sam was too nice to hate, too smart to insult satisfyingly—a quip always prepared on the end of his tongue (Hank tried many a time)—and just an all-around good person. Despite Hank’s many attempts at pulling them away from each other, in the end he became one of them, and slowly fell for Sam’s down-to-earth appeal himself.

 

\---

 

Sam opened up to Hank one day when they were (gasp!) without the company of Charles.

 

Charles was in a classroom, assisting a teacher with a presentation to a room full of freshmen. Hank thought Sam would have just left once he saw Charles wasn’t around, but, curiously enough, he needed someone to talk to, and Hank was someone he trusted enough to share his concerns with.

 

Sam was homesick. Rather, he was worried about his big brother, Dean, who was the closest thing to home Sam had. Hank nodded, letting Sam continue to share without interrupting him. He was startled at his own compassion for Sam, considering Sam was his rival in love.

 

Sam was from a pretty ordinary family; parents who fell in love, wed, and then had two children. It almost made Hank want to hate Sam again, until he mentioned that his father was often away on ‘business trips’. Sam didn’t elaborate, and didn’t seem too keen on the idea of doing so either, so Hank didn’t bother asking what those trips consisted of. But from the sad look on Sam’s face, Hank knew it wasn’t anything good.

 

Sam and Dean had to change schools every few weeks, or once a month if they were lucky, due to the moving. It was hard on their mother, and each phone call from John ended with the same argument. As their mother began to break down, Dean took over and became the man of the house. He took care of Sam and his mother, putting his own needs onto the back burner for as long as they needed.

 

As time passed, Dean’s character started to change for the worse. He didn’t care about his grades at school, didn’t bother with securing a relationship for himself unless it was with family, and began to drink more regularly. When Sam graduated from high school and Dean dropped out, Sam felt like it could only be blamed on their father never being around to support them, leaving the burden on their mother alone.

 

Sam’s eyes began to well up with tears just remembering all he and Dean had been through in the past ten years. Ten years was a long time to spend moving around, no matter how strong you were.

 

Luckily Bobby, a close friend of their father’s, was around to help once in a while when Mary needed to work or take a breather. He knew about these ‘trips’ – often being a part of them himself – so he never judged John for what he did, but also didn’t want to leave Mary and her sons on their own. He became like a father to the Winchesters, and once both their parents passed away, he was the only one they had left to count on.  Sam left out the part about his family, Bobby included, being hunters. Hank wouldn’t be able to understand. Most people wouldn’t be able to.

 

But after all those years of having hardly any family left, Sam became self-dependent. He strayed from the life they raised him in. And he wanted to do something for himself: study abroad.

 

Sam thought, no, he was _convinced_ he was being selfish, leaving Dean behind after all he’d done, to pursue his own egocentric dream. Dean never would have left, never would have put his needs before Sam’s or their mother’s, and the guilt was starting to eat Sam up inside. No matter how much he wanted to be a lawyer, it was hard to forget how upset, how lonely Dean must be without him.

 

Hank consoled Sam, told him that everything happened for a reason, and that Dean, most likely, wanted his brother to do well in life. Otherwise, why would he have sacrificed so much to allow his younger brother to graduate high school? Sam smiled, and Hank, unable to look at Sam with the same jealousy and envy he held, returned it gladly.

 

Sam was only human, the same as Hank was – just with slightly better packaging.

 

\-----

 

Charles invited them over for summer, and they both accepted without a hint of hesitation, never having been so spoiled in their entire existence. Sam was used to living on the road with his family, which Hank agreed was worse than him being a ‘brainiac _’_ with no friends, because that was Hank’s choice (at least, most of the time it was).

 

And then one day, when Hank thought he couldn’t like Sam any more than he already did—or despise him for his perfection more, for that matter—he revealed to Hank and Charles that he had dreams, visions that always came true.

 

Charles was delighted, amazed even, but Hank couldn’t quite figure out why. Then, like it wasn’t a big deal, Charles shared that he, too, had been hiding a strange power. Charles could not only bend minds, control them, and twist them at his own whim, but he could _read_ them, too.

 

Hank was very near fainting until he realized he was already lying down, so it didn’t matter if he fell Something tickled at the back of his mind, wondering if Charles knew about his and Sam’s abilities all along. (Or worse, his oversized, crippling _man-crush_ on Charles.) Maybe that was why Charles had befriended them, or why they were attracted to one another like magnets, like peas in a pod, since they all carried a distinct type of secret.

 

Hank knew he’d always been interested in science, in genetics mainly, because he wanted to be rid of the genes in him that made him stand out so much. And if that wasn’t possible, he just wanted to understand why he was born with it and no one else in his family was. Charles seemed perfectly content with his ‘powers’ though, and probably only intended on finding a way to share their uses with normal people, amplifying them in the process.

 

“How ‘bout you, Hank?” Sam asked softly, pulling Hank from his inner monologue. The syllables ran together interestingly because of the rum and coke in Sam’s system. “Do you have any special abilities?”

 

Abilities? That was an interesting way to call his curse, his _defect_.

 

“I do.” Hank sat up on the sofa, taking a long sip from his glass. He needed the comforting burn of it, tingly in his mind and stomach, to give him a push to say it aloud. Especially with the way Charles was eyeing him in wait of a big revelation (that would surely disappoint, since he can read minds).

 

“I can do this.”

 

And with slightly more effort than someone would need to jump into the air, or do a backflip, Hank’s toes were grasping onto the living room chandelier. When it started to creak worryingly, Hank took that as his cue to jump down before he brought it crashing to the floor with him.

 

“Hank.” Charles breathed in his name like he couldn’t find enough air to fill his lungs. “Hank that was fantastic!” He smiled wildly, all teeth and crinkled muscles, trying to contain his visible amazement.

 

“Re-really?” Hank looked down at his bare feet, feeling oddly proud of them for once, surprised that Charles was so taken aback and impressed. Maybe Charles knew beforehand about his primate-like feet, but what he could have imagined, and what was reality, were often very different things.

 

“That was awesome, seriously,” Sam added, patting Hank on the back encouragingly. “That must have been really fun to practice when you were a kid, I bet.”

 

“Actually.” Hank looked down at his unattractive, but surprisingly useful toes. He slowly looked up at Sam , smiling. He realized this was the first time he genuinely smiled at Sam without being prompted to, and he liked how it felt. “I did. And, thanks.”

 

“So.” Charles put his fingers out, to count no doubt. “I’m a telepath, Sam is a precognitive seer, and you my dear friend—” His words flittered and slid around in Hank’s stomach, making him anxious. “—are a genius with impeccable strength, and unmatched balance in his lower body.”

 

How could you not be impressed with yourself when it was phrased that way?

 

The night went along smoothly after that. They exchanged stories of mishaps due to their _abilities_ —as Sam so befittingly deemed them—and drank glass upon glass of rum and coke (turning into just rum after a while). Charles seemed to have an endless supply of alcohol in his home because of his parents.

 

After having ignored it for some time, Sam had to use the bathroom, and stood gesturing to the hallway in question. Charles had to show him where it was because his home was literally like a maze, and Hank was left alone in the living room to sip at the smooth mixture in his grasp. 

 

A few minutes passed, and Hank heard laughter he recognized. Charles always laughed in that particular way when he told a girl in their school, or in a bar, that she had a ‘groovy mutation _’_ , and she rejected him in spite of it.

 

Hank mustered all of the energy he had left – after having successfully leaped to the ceiling without causing damage – and followed the laughter down the hall, not wanting to miss out on the jokes. He finally felt like one of them, and he wanted it to keep going uphill tonight.

 

When Hank arrived in the corridor where Charles’s laughter was coming from, he immediately realized he should have just waited in the living room where they had left him.

 

Sam was leaning against the doorway of the bathroom, and Charles was practically lying against Sam – a real feat considering they’re standing up – and laughing into Sam’s neck. Sam’s hand was trailing down Charles’s side, which might have appeared to be flirtatious if it were anyone else, but it was Sam, and he was keeping Charles steady. Charles was without shame though, standing on the edge of his toes, trying to kiss Sam to no avail.

 

All Hank could think was _thank god for their height difference_.

 

Though in the past Hank might have stormed off, or walked up to Sam and started a fight he couldn’t win, right now, as the seconds passed like grains of sand falling in an hourglass, he couldn’t really conjure up any negative feelings towards either of them. They were his friends. He wanted them to be happy, and if that meant them being together and him not being included in that equation, then so be it.

 

Hank chuckled to himself, realizing how selfless that was. He was proud to have finally grown up.

 

Hank stepped away quietly, and returned to the living room to finish his glass of rum. Charles appeared moments later, sans his boy-toy, and plopped onto the sofa next to Hank unceremoniously.

 

“You, my friend-” Charles poked Hank’s cheek in a friendly manner. “-are an amazing person. Don’t forget that.”

 

Hank tilted his head slightly, eyeing Charles next to him, wondering how drunk he was. He finally laughed when he couldn’t even see Charles straight. “So’re you.”

 

Charles clanked their empty glasses together, and ended up with his face in Hank’s lap when he lost his balance. “S-sorry.”

 

Reddening faster than Rudolph’s infamous nose, Hank helped Charles lean back against the sofa. “Don’t worry, I’m tipsy, too.”

 

Sam appeared, walking in some semblance of a straight line, and sat on, surprisingly, the other side of Hank, wrapping him in a tight hold. “Missed me, buddy?”

 

“Sure?” Hank watched him curiously; the flushed skin a nice contrast to Sam’s usually bronzed tone. “How’re you doing? I think Charles is done.”

 

“Am not,” Charles slurred into Hank’s arm. He sat up properly for a moment. “I am not.”

 

“Think so too,” Sam whispered into Hank’s ear. “I’ll bring him to bed. We can have one last glass after, though.” He nudged Hank. “You want to?”

 

As much as some part of Hank’s former self would have revelled in breaking the newly-formed couple up with something as fun as drinking, he knew his ‘new’ self would not approve of such rotten behaviour.

 

“Nah, I’m just going to sleep. You should keep him company instead. In case he gets sick.”

 

Sam did nothing but smile appreciatively, nodding in agreement. He hefted Charles up from his spot on the couch, guiding him to his room. “See you in the morning, or afternoon – whenever you wake up.”

 

Trying not to remember the way Charles draped himself against every curve of Sam’s body in the hallway, or the way he was lacking in inhibitions and balance currently, Hank sighed quietly. He needed another drink after all.

 

For the rest of the night, Hank attempted to ignore the urge to simplyget a peek of Charles’s lithe body next to Sam’s. He reminded himself that doing that would only complicate their friendship, and he really liked the way it was now. He really liked them as people, as his friends, and it needed to stay that way.

 

But just one glance couldn’t hurt, could it?

 

Hank found himself down the hall, walking toward Charles’s room faster than he could refill his glass with more rum. And there they were, in all their drunken glory.

 

Charles was kissing insanely well for a man as knackered as him, and Sam was trying to hold him back, but eventually gave in. Those restless lips knew how to do pornographic things, even if Charles couldn’t stand without help. Hank felt a twitch in his pants, followed closely by a jolt, when he realized that Charles was controlling Sam, and that’s why Sam had given in.

 

Sam wasn’t pushing back anymore, wasn’t cupping Charles’s face, he was just lying there, and letting Charles slide up and down his body. Charles was using Sam like an overgrown, less demeaning version of a blow-up doll, Charles’s arms tightly around him.

 

Then, as though a voice from God was interrupting Hank’s thoughts and nudging them aside, he heard: _Are you going to stand there all night, or do you want to join, Hank?_

 

Hank escaped down the hall faster than he arrived, lunging at the couch and burying his face in the cushions to hide the flush threatening to become a permanent fixture to his face. Charles wasn’t in his right mind, couldn’t be. Why would Charles want to sleep with both of them? And that aside, why would Hank want to share the man he loved with anyone, never mind Sam who has been Charles’s crush for months? He shook his head as he tried to make sense of what just happened, causing his head to spin even more than before.

 

It was a strange turn of events.

 

\-----

 

Hank may or may not have listened in when he heard moans. And perhaps his hand found its way into his boxers, bringing him to full hardness with a couple of strokes. And per chance he might have climaxed, left a nasty stain on Charles’s coach, and then _sort of_ lied the next day. But none of that could be proven, really, except if Charles pried the truth from Hank’s brain with his annoying ability.

 

(And that, in no way, affected their friendship negatively – even if it might have all happened again the following night.)

 

They returned to school, resuming their overbearing schedules, and forgetting almost everything that happened during the summer. Hank was astonished (and relieved) when Sam and Charles decided to remain friends rather than become lovers. They admitted to their relationship being more of an intellectual one than a physical one.

 

Charles swore it wasn’t because of the height disparity, and Sam swore it wasn’t because of his fear of being mentally manhandled (again), but Hank knew better than to believe their lies. They both had a strong sense of self in their own ways, and it just made them clash.

 

He knew them better at the end of that summer than he ever thought he would.

 

When they graduated, Sam returned to his brother in the United States, Hank worked on multiple scientific projects, professional and personal, successfully building up his reputation in the world of genetics and experimentation, and Charles tried to find others out there, just as lost and confused as they were before they met one another.

 

There were bound to be more ‘special’ people walking the streets, unaware of their own capacities.

 

*-*-*

 

“Sam.” Charles smiles against the receiver. “It’s been a long time, darling.”

 

“Oh, wow, I wasn’t expecting to hear your voice.” Sam laughs, turning away from Dean when he feels eyes on him, interested in who his brother is speaking to. “How’ve you been, buddy?”

 

“I’ve been doing well, but-” Charles sighs. “-as much as I’d like this to be a friendly chat, I need your help.”

 

“Really? What’s up?” Sam waves a hand at Dean who has stopped cleaning his gun, staring at Sam with wide eyes. Dean mouths out the words _Is it a girl?_ And when Sam shakes his head, he resumes cleaning his gun.

 

“There’s a man, a mutant I believe.” Charles smiles over at Hank, nodding for him to start up the engine. “I found him using Hank’s new creation, and he’s on your side of the world. I believe him to be extremely dangerous.”

 

“Oh.” Sam’s brow creases slowly. “Okay. What do you need me to do?”

 

“Come with me - as backup mainly. Maybe we can convince him to settle down without having to fight?” Charles gives a wry smile, knowing he hasn’t had much luck in the past.

 

“Sure. Where do I meet you?” Sam glares at Dean who is throwing his hands in the air exaggeratedly, protesting the lack of consent.

 

“Hank has a plane he’s built. Where are you? We’ll pick you up.” Charles climbs into the back of the fighter jet, sitting next to Hank in the front of the aircraft.

 

Sam tells Charles the exact location, detailing the area carefully to avoid having to call back. He says a quick goodbye, and hangs up, turning to face Dean, who is still staring at him in disbelief.

 

“Are you sure that wasn’t a chick? ‘Cause-” Dean stands, putting the safety on his gun and tucking it in his pants. “-it seems like whoever that was just pressured you into something you didn’t wanna do.”

 

“First of all, it’s Charles. You know, my best friend from Oxford?” Sam crosses his arms, giving Dean the sternest look he can. “And secondly, he asked for my help, and I said yes. There was no pressure.”

 

“Okay, so what’s going on, Sammy?” Dean fixes his leather jacket, tugging the collar up. He’s always worried about what girl he might need to impress when he gets outside. “A ghost? Chupacabra maybe? Or is it a witch? If it’s a witch, I’m staying here.”

 

“He said he didn’t know.” Dean’s eyes narrow at that; Sam shakes his head. “But no, it’s definitely not a witch.”

 

Dean sighs in relief. “All right.” He turns to his duffel bag, filling it with clothes and extra weapons. “So when’s he getting here?”

 

Wind gusts outside making the dirt swirl and tap at their window gently. It’s followed closely by the deafening sound of an engine with more power than Dean’s precious Impala that leaves them both cowering as they cover their ears. Sam walks over to the window when the noise is at a tolerable level, pulling the curtain back, only to find a grey, military-looking plane parked outside the motel they’re staying at. It’s a good thing they always worked in such small towns otherwise there would have been no room for it to land—vertically or otherwise.

 

Sam points at the window, glancing back at Dean. “Now, I guess.”

 

Dean’s gasp is the most effeminate sound Sam’s ever heard Dean make. He’s obviously impressed with the ride they’ve hitched. Sam proudly tucks the sound away, and keeps it in his mind-pocket for future reference (when Dean teases him for being oversensitive).  Clearly having rich, genius friends has its perks.


	4. With Brother Gone, the Dog Will Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we have a flashback of Peter & Dean, when they were intimate.

A long time ago (according to Dean), when Sam was busy trying to live a normal, paranormal-free life, Dean used to go on cases alone. Their father was off, as usual, trying to deal with more serious, life-threatening ones, but left Dean with the ones that he had been doing since a young age.

 

Dean didn’t really mind; the adrenaline and minor injuries were a good distraction from how much he wished Sam was around to talk to. He mostly had to deal with spirits and ghosts – the ones with grudges and unsolved murders. What else was new? Law enforcers weren’t exactly high on Dean’s list of people he aspired to become.

 

Maybe it was karma coming back to get him. Maybe he was distracted by his incessant inside-voice. But either way, Dean hadn’t seen the angry poltergeist headed his way until the last moment. Not until it had pushed him down the stairs he came up from.

 

Needless to say, Dean’s plan hadn’t gone exactly as, well, _planned_.

 

He was dreaming, or he was fairly certain that he was, when someone - a _dude_ his mind shouted, because it wanted it to be a woman for once – came to his rescue. Why weren’t there more women to save him? He carried Dean down the rest of the staircase; inhumanly strong for a man with such a slight frame. Dean had to be dreaming for that part alone.

 

“Hey. Hey.” The man tapped Dean’s cheek lightly. It felt too real to be a dream, but Dean’s mind had tricked him before. “Can you hear me? Are you okay?”

 

“Nngh, huh?” Dean thought, even for a dream, he sounded pretty damn _dumb_. “Who are you?”

 

“I’m a paramedic. We got a call that someone may have been hurt. My name’s Peter.”

 

Dean tried to keep his eyes from closing; afraid of what might happen if he passed out and left this _Peter_ with that vengeful spirit upstairs. He couldn’t find anything to look at but the name tag at eye-level, and his gaze traced the letters on it. _Petrelli_ was this man’s last name.

 

“I’m fine.” Back to being tough. _This is what I do_ , Dean reminded himself. No one was supposed to save him. He was supposed to be able to handle this with ease. His father’s voice was already nagging in the back of his mind. “Don’t tell anyone about this.”

 

Peter’s eyes widened. “You’re joking, right?” He tried to stop Dean from standing, but a hand came up to bat at Peter’s with firm conviction, firm enough to make him back off slightly, and let Dean stand almost on his own. “Fine, okay. Take it easy.”

 

But Peter wasn’t going to let Dean do this without some help.

 

Peter lifted Dean to his feet, dusting off whatever he could before receiving an unappreciative glare. “You just fell down at least a dozen steps, knocked yourself out, and you’re worried about your – uh – reputation?”

 

“Damn right.” And Dean was certain now that he wasn’t dreaming. His voice was back and better than ever. He tried to walk, his legs crumbling beneath him with the pain. “Ow. What the fuck!”

 

Peter was there in a flash, lifting Dean, and putting his arm around his shoulder. He knew it was a bad idea to let him get up so soon after the fall.

 

“As I was saying-” Peter gave him a hesitant smile. “I don’t think you should be worrying about your reputation. Not right now at least.”

 

Dean sighed and wrapped an arm around Peter’s waist. “Fine, whatever.” He spotted his gun at the top of the stairs, but worried that going up there meant being pushed back down. Asking for help definitely wasn’t his strong suit, not something he liked doing, but he tried it anyway.

 

“Can you…” Dean rubbed his nape nervously, playing the innocent card. “Get my gun up there?” He pointed to it lying against the wood.

 

“Yeah, sure.” Peter guided Dean to the bannister, letting him lean there.

 

Dean watched the smaller man closely, in case the poltergeist came back. He had brown hair, about Sam’s length, the same innocent, puppy-dog eyes but much darker, and a lean but definitely strong build. There was something about him that just seemed so pure, so much more than human, and yet, familiar. He dashed up the steps in a flash, grabbing the revolver, and rushing down just as quickly. Dean was glad the ghost didn’t return for round two – yet.

 

“Here you are.” Peter repositioned Dean’s weight over him, keeping him standing effortlessly.  “Wanna go now? I hope this isn’t your house.” He peered around, looking back at Dean when he was done. “It’s kind of falling apart.”

 

“No, it’s not my house,” Dean snapped, feeling bad about it immediately after. He sighed. “I was just looking for something.”

 

“Did you find it?” Peter walked Dean towards the front door, reaching for the handle. “Sorry. I don’t kno-”

 

“It’s fine. Yeah, I did.” Dean felt his lips curling upward, something suspiciously similar to his flirty, I-wanna-get-laid smile. Clearing his throat, Dean tore his gaze away. “Let’s get outta here.” He’d just have to come back another time.

 

\-----

 

Peter set Dean up in the back of his truck, strapping him in securely in case they hit a bump or pothole. He was careful to slip the gun Dean was carrying in his case when his partner hadn’t climbed in yet. As soon as Dean’s head hit the comfortable makeshift pillow – Peter’s jacket – he passed out. And the other paramedic slipped past them to sit in the driver’s seat, looking grumpy.

 

Peter’s partner sighed. Peter never waited for him. Somehow, Peter always arrived well before him, too. But either way it was effective, and Peter never took any credit, so he would have to get used to being the chauffeur.

 

Watching his vitals closely, Peter sat next to Dean the entire drive, making sure everything stayed at a safe level. Although he wasn’t conscious anymore, Peter’s gaze kept sweeping across his face, attracted by the long lashes he thought only girls could have. If Peter’s memory served him well, which it usually did, Dean’s eyes were a clear and bright green. And something deep down, a part of himself Peter didn’t want to admit to, could _not_ wait to see Dean when his eyes were open again.

 

In spite of his heart’s gentle pitter-patter every time Dean huffed or shifted to get more comfortable, Peter stayed professional, and wasn’t going to touch him. Or worse even, flirt when he was conscious again. He didn’t even know this man’s name, didn’t think there was any chance he’d be interested either, and even if he was, Peter couldn’t just allow his work ethics to morph into something so foul as to fulfill his growing curiosity.

 

They arrived a few minutes later.

 

Dean blinked; Peter came into focus, looking even more handsome and gentle than he did before. Peter stood by the bedside, wheeling Dean into the hospital with a soft smile on his face. Dean felt that his mind was winding down again, though, and he probably didn’t have much more time with Peter before he would slip under for the night.

 

“Thank you,” Dean managed to whisper before his drooping eyelids won the battle, trying to grip Peter’s hand, but unable to muster the strength.

 

Dean wasn’t exactly sure, but he could have sworn there was something sharp and paper-like digging into his palm before he was out cold.

 

\-----

 

Later, when Dean woke up, he really did feel the sharp edges of something in his palm. It would probably leave a mark since he’d been clutching it for who knows how long. Dean’s muscles didn’t respond as quickly as usual. He was on some serious painkillers; the kind that made you hallucinate giant easter bunnies and rainbows everywhere. When his fingers finally uncurled, there was a post-it in his grasp with a note scribbled in the middle of it.

_Hey_

_I managed to keep your items somewhere safe._

_Please use this number to get a hold of me and arrange for a pick up._

_Peter Petrelli_

That was one thing Sam and Peter didn’t have in common. Sam would have never had the balls to leave his number in an injured person’s hand, no matter how hot they were.

 

Dean raised a brow. He read the note again, and again, and once more for good luck. Peter was definitely interested in him, right? Even though he hadn’t explicitly said it, Dean just had a hunch he was getting special treatment.

 

And Peter was obviously attractive, even for Dean who preferred easy women from small towns with long hair and big breasts, but he’d never dated a man before. It kind of bothered Dean; he didn’t like feeling new at anything. Like he was virginal. He shivered at the thought.

 

Of course everyone had their experimental phases, and so did Dean. He remembered it like it was yesterday. He got caught necking with a fellow student under the bleachers. The guy was a walking stereotype. Blond hair, blue eyes, ripped abs, fast car, cheerleader girlfriend, and he was a quarterback. The only thing that set him apart from every teen movie was the fact that he apparently had a penchant for rebellious dudes like Dean.

 

But, man, could that guy kiss.

 

The teacher who found them, half-naked and moaning in the grass, promised to never tell a soul about it if they didn’t repeat the mistake. That teacher had kept their word, but Dean and his ‘friend’ drifted apart, out of fear of being teased or outcast for swinging more than one way.

 

Whether because of that experience or not, Dean never really bothered with men afterwards. Call it cowardice if you will.

 

But since no one was around to judge any more, and he didn’t give a _flying fuck_ even if they did, Dean let go of the apprehension, and saved Peter’s number in his cell phone.

 

\-----

 

After he was discharged, Dean flipped his phone open and dialed Peter’s number. It rang, then again, and again…Dean was starting to lose the courage he had previously built up while going down memory lane, and he considered hanging up. But then he remembered that Peter also had his gun, so he stayed on the line. On the fourth ring, Peter answered, panting and nearly breathless. Dean urged his mind to stay the fuck out of the gutter for once but failed miserably.

 

“Hello?” Peter finally said, still trying to catch his breath. “Who’s this?”

 

That was true. Peter didn’t know Dean’s number yet. “It’s the guy you brought to the hospital.”

 

Maybe a bit vaguer than Dean intended, but he had his pride to keep somewhat intact. If Peter couldn’t remember the person he’d given his number to that would mean Dean was nothing but another pretty face to him.

 

“Oh.” Peter sounded relieved, happy. “Hey. How’re you now?”

 

He sounded surprisingly casual for someone who gave his number to an unconscious person. Dean had a sudden flash of Peter doing it all the time, Peter convincing them they were special, only to discard them once the next prey arrived. Sounded a lot like what Dean did from town to town, actually.

 

That didn’t make any sense with Peter, though.

 

Peter was like Sam. And besides, if he did it with all the people he saved, he wouldn’t be so sure as to who he was speaking to. Dean shook his head, disappointed by his own brain’s malfunctioning. It had to be the painkillers, again.

 

“I’m doing better,” Dean said just as casually. “Are you busy?” His confidence faltered, and it was probably audible, but he needed that gun back regardless.

 

Peter was smiling against the receiver, Dean could hear it. “No, I was just doing some push ups. Hey –” He was holding a copy of the hospital records he _accidentally_ brought home with him. “Your name’s Maxwell House?” But there was a playful note to the question that kind of made Dean wonder what Peter was thinking.

 

“Yeah, um –” Dean scrambled his brains trying to find a plausible excuse for using a fake name. There weren’t really any legal ones Dean could come up with. “That’s not my real name, actually. That – uh…”

 

“No worries,” Peter interrupted him, voice soft and friendly. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t the heir to the coffee company or something.”

 

Dean was impressed with how easygoing Peter was, how non-judgemental, too. The man was like a saint, and for once it worked in Dean’s favour.

 

“Well.” Dean found his spine sometime during the conversation. “I’m better now, can you meet up soon?”

 

Peter hummed, walking over to his planner, grabbing a towel on the way to dab sweat from his hairline. “I’m off until late this evening. I’m working the night shift.”

 

“Great, I’m nocturnal.” Dean smirked against his phone. “You drive?”

 

“Yes I do,” Peter answered quickly. “Did you have somewhere in mind?”

 

“I know this great coffee shop near my –uh – place.” Dean almost blurted out that he hopped from motel to motel to his potential date. That wasn’t something anyone needed to know on a first date. But this wasn’t a date anyway. It was just a meeting. Right? “I’ll send you the address by text.”

 

“Sounds good.” Peter felt his smile stiffen a bit. He wanted to ignore the save, but he thought it might be important. “See you there in a bit.” He didn’t sound very enthusiastic about the meeting.

 

Dean hung up and typed in the address of the diner. For some reason, he was feeling anxious about this Peter guy, but it didn’t make any sense. He hadn’t felt that way since high school, which only helped to remind him of that incident back then. And, yeah, that was kind of discouraging him.

 

But when the time came, Dean drove there lightning fast, breaking a few more laws along the way. He found a spot in a corner, and sat down. Much to his awe (and delight), Peter seemed to reflect the same nervous energy when he arrived through the entrance. They stared at each other, a weird tension between them. The waitress cleared her throat, and Dean snapped back to reality, remembering where he was. Peter rushed inside, and sat across from Dean.

 

Under the table, Peter slid Dean his gun, and offered him an uneasy expression. He didn’t seem to like handling firearms. Dean snorted at that; he loved them.

 

“Scared it’ll go off?” Dean murmured jokingly. “Thanks, by the way.”

 

Peter looked away. “Not really. I just don’t trust them.” But what he meant is that he didn’t trust himself around them.

 

“That’s what the safety is for.” Dean looked up for the first time after their awkward staring contest earlier. Peter was still looking away, but his eyes were smiling. It made Dean feel strangely fond of him. He pushed the feeling aside. “Did you eat?”

 

“Not yet.” Peter looked at the menu thrust in his face by Dean, taking it slowly. “I guess I will though.”

 

Dean hummed in approval.

 

\-----

 

Somehow, between missing Sam’s presence, and wanting to feel safe, Peter filled a significant gap in Dean’s life.

 

It only started out as friendship.

 

Peter had always felt weird presences around him, and Dean was the only one who told Peter he wasn’t imagining things, that it was true. Ironically, the strange and supernatural brought them together in a normal, conventional way.

 

Dean liked Peter because of his independence and his longing to help people weaker than him. He liked that he didn’t judge Dean when he explained that his job consisted of solving unthinkable and violent cases, despite not being an officer of the law. Peter never judged Dean for using fake names either. Not now that he knew Dean’s real name.

 

Peter didn’t ask where Dean was going when he left for a job, just told him to be careful. And strangely enough, whenever Dean was finished, he would come back to NYC to stay at Peter’s apartment. He tried to convince Peter, but mostly himself, that it was to save money. Peter didn’t call Dean out on his denial either.

 

Somewhere along the line, their relationship shifted from just friendship to companionship.

 

Peter’s door was always open to Dean, and he even told Dean where the spare key was in case he needed to hide out while Peter was working. That and many other things pushed Dean to finally trust Peter enough after a few months to tell him his full name.

 

“Nice to finally meet you, Dean Winchester,” Peter said jokingly.

 

After that, companionship turned to something more. The only part that was missing (the best part, in Dean’s opinion): sex.

 

The first time they had sex, Peter was nervous and shaky; he’d never done it with a man, and he hadn’t been with a woman in a long, long time because of his work.

 

They went slow, slower than Dean was used to, but it was nice. They kissed until Dean could feel Peter slowly coming out of his shell, then Dean touched Peter in all the places he remembered that jock liked. His chest, the inside of his thighs, his ass, and his cock of course. But Peter seemed to like all the places Dean touched him, so long as Dean kept his hands on him. It was easier to get Peter off than it was with the sixteen year old quarterback. And Dean told Peter he took that as a compliment, that it was normal since Dean had a lot of experience. 

 

He didn’t mention the fact that they’d been practically dancing around each other, drooling for the other, for months and that all the build-up probably made Peter overly eager, or the fact that they had a real connection with each other.

 

That kind of shit was for Sammy to say, not Dean.

 

Dean still left often for cases, but when he came back, he would look for Peter immediately, and practically fall into his lap.

 

Things progressed smoothly; they didn’t argue much, at least not seriously, and they had a lot in common. Peter seemed really serious, but he was always willing to laugh at Dean’s jokes, even if they weren’t always funny. Dean, in exchange, tried to pick up Peter’s healthy living, his good habits, and integrated them into his hunting life.

 

Suddenly, there were more cases, Peter was busier than ever, and they couldn’t see each other as much. That turned into the biggest problem; they couldn’t get their timing to match.

 

Either Dean had to drive hours away and was too tired to do anything but sleep when he came back or – when he found the energy to stay awake – Peter had to rush off to work to do a night shift. Most often it Peter had double shifts, too. They did, however, make sure to at least share the bed if they hadn’t seen each other for a while.

 

\-----

 

One day, after a long and irritating phone call – or so it seemed from Peter’s repeated sighs and drumming against the counter with his fingers – Peter approached Dean lounging in the living room and sat next to him. Peter curled their fingers together in the way he did when he needed a favour. Dean had long since stopped trying to pull away. Peter would just be upset, and Dean didn’t like seeing that. Plus, Dean had sort of become used to the gesture.

 

“Dean.” Peter sighed, hiding his face in Dean’s neck. Dean tried to scowl, but Peter wasn’t looking at him. “Can you come with me?”

 

“Come where?” Puns, there were so many puns swimming through Dean’s mind. His brain was trying to avoid this overly sweet scenario they were in.

 

“My mother’s home,” Peter murmured against Dean’s neck. “They want me to go for dinner, and I don’t want to go alone.” He squeezed Dean’s hand fondly. “I think she already knows I’m dating someone.”

 

 _Because she has dreams about everything,_ is what Peter would like to add, but he doesn’t want to scare Dean more than he probably has.

 

Spending an evening answering questions about how they met, why they were dating, why he’s a man… Dean didn’t know if he was ready for that type of conversation yet. But Peter looked exhausted, and they were finally together for the day. And the free food sounded pretty freakin’ awesome, too.

 

“Yeah, fine,” Dean ground out, clicking the television off with the remote in his other hand. He pulled his hand away, dragging it down his face. “But you owe me. Big time.”

 

\-----

 

They reached the so-called home an hour later. Dean really, really wished Peter wasn’t so humble when it came to his background. The ‘house’ was actually an _estate_ left by Peter’s father who passed away not long before he met Dean. The only thing Dean had that could even compare to the fancy, extravagant and jaw-dropping items around the house was his baby, the Impala.

 

Walking up to the door with surprising ease considering the butterflies rebounding off the sides of his stomach, Peter rang the doorbell. He turned to Dean, smiling at him lovingly, the same way he does right after sex. If Peter wasn’t such a damn saint, Dean would think this was a plan to crush his manhood altogether.

 

A man came to the door, older than Peter, but about the same height. “Peter! Glad you could make it.” He kissed Peter on the cheek. Peter returned the gesture, and Dean tried not to gape at that. The man let Peter pass by, and offered his hand for Dean. “Hey, I’m Nathan, Peter’s older brother.”

 

Well that was unexpected.

 

Dean wondered how many times he’d seen brothers kiss each other on the cheek; he could count it on one hand. And none of those times was it him kissing Sam on the cheek. He winced at the idea because it brought along others he didn’t want to think about. That traitor was off with his rich, brainy friends in England anyway.

 

“Nice to meet you, I’m Dean.” He shook Nathan’s hand with a nice, firm, _manly_ grip. Nathan’s hold was strong, his suit was tailored and snug, and his gold ring was blinding. He had to be some corporate executive or someone high up like that.

 

“I’m a close friend of Peter’s,” Dean continued. That was as honest as Dean was going to get with this big brother who seemed just as overprotective as he was with Sam. Nathan’s eyes seemed to darken, but Dean credited it to his active imagination.

 

Peter was further inside already, his mother squeezing him in one of those maternal, bone-cracking holds. Clearly, he didn’t visit her as much as he should, considering she was still alive – unlike Dean’s mom who had passed away when he was young.

 

“Call me Angela”, she said when Dean had started to call her Mrs. Petrelli. He wondered for a moment if that meant he’d have to kiss her cheeks, too. But she approached Dean, and outstretched her hand for him to take. That Dean could deal with.

 

She smiled, but Dean was good at reading women; he had to do it all the time. And because of it, he noticed that there was judgement in her gaze. There was something about Dean she didn’t quite approve of. But she couldn’t have known he was dating Peter, could she? No, that wasn’t possible.

 

Dean was given a tour of their home – since the chef wasn’t finished preparing the meal yet – and it felt endless.

 

The first thing he noticed was how many pictures of Peter and Nathan there was everywhere. In most of them, Nathan looked bright and cheery while Peter seemed to fold in on himself a bit, looking timid and unsure in most shots. What was it with younger brothers sometimes being a bit more reserved? Sam and Peter would probably get along really well, bitching about how annoyingly popular their older brothers are. Dean grumbled, following Nathan down the hall.

 

“Something wrong?” Nathan asked, turning around.

 

“No, nothing,” Dean answered. Peter poked Dean in the side when Nathan turned back, walking ahead of them.

 

“I know you don’t want to be here, but I promise you’ll like what we’re eating,” Peter whispered into Dean’s ear, stepping away when Nathan glanced over his shoulder.

 

Peter hadn’t told his family about Dean yet, knowing full-well that they wouldn’t approve of him being with a man rather than settling down with a young woman and having kids. And that aside, Dean didn’t seem willing to make it official with Peter. He wasn’t even sure if Dean considered him more than just a friend with benefits.

 

Nathan showed them the pool, even suggested that Dean come by for a swim on a sweltering day. Peter chuckled, fully aware of the glare aimed at Nathan’s head. When Nathan eyed them curiously, Dean cleared his throat, and gave a faux-sweet smile. It worked on everyone else.

 

After a few more long corridors and bathrooms, Nathan excused himself to check if supper was ready. Peter dragged Dean away into a bedroom, and locked the door behind them.

 

“This was my room, so no one’s going to come in here,” Peter explained with a smouldering look in his eyes. “I figure we can have a few minutes of privacy before we get called downstairs.”

 

Dean grinned, crowding Peter against the door. “Now I remember why I like you so much.”

 

And then things seemed to be looking up for Dean (especially when Peter slid his hand down Dean’s jeans and jerked him off). To make Dean utterly blissed-out before supper must have been Peter’s plan all along, Dean decided. It was always the quiet ones that were most kinky.

 

\---

 

They got called down for supper – luckily after Peter finished cleaning Dean up with his mouth and a damp washcloth – and Dean felt a bit less apprehensive about this whole evening.

 

The supper went fairly well. The food was good, Angela was sticking to asking impersonal questions to all three of them, and Nathan didn’t seem half as murderous as he did earlier. Besides the fact that Dean had to cover up his yawns in twenty different ways to avoid seeming rude, there wasn’t much to complain about. It had been a while since Dean had a family dinner, and usually Sam was around for it, so this was a new thing to him.

 

Nathan began telling Dean about himself when Angela’s rapid-fire questions for Dean and Peter stopped. He was quite a bit older than Peter, and successful politician. He was married with two children, and the softness in his voice surprised Dean. Nathan had to love them very much. Angela cut in, adding that she sometimes gave Nathan advice and aid during his campaigns, but he never thanked her for it.

 

“Mom, don’t start. I thank you all the time,” Nathan had replied, sounding bored.

 

Angela, sipping at her third glass of wine, said that she mostly spent her time at home. But Peter had told Dean beforehand that his mother loved going to luxurious spas and high-priced restaurants. She didn’t have a job – not that Dean knew of – so she must have basically been living off of what her late husband left them. And, considering her extravagant lifestyle, it must have been a lot.

 

All of this money, fancy cars, and the lack of warmth around the family members – save for Peter, of course – was ruining Dean’s mood. Even that orgasm earlier wasn’t making this any more tolerable. Peter noticed that Dean was uncomfortable, always in-tuned to him, and announced to his family that they had to leave. He made up an excuse about them having plans to go to a bar, since they both had the morning off tomorrow.

 

Angela seemed hurt with her big, dark eyes, wearing the same expression Dean had when Peter would escape for work without telling him goodbye. Nathan just nodded, wiping his hands on a napkin, and shaking Dean’s hand again politely. His grip still was as strong and sure as the first time, but there was a fondness in his eyes. It gave Dean the creeps; what if he was planning to kiss Dean?

 

“You take care,” Nathan said warmly. “And have fun.”

 

Peter pulled Nathan in for a gentle hug, avoiding the kiss this time, knowing that Dean would just mock him all the more later if it happened again. But when he headed for the door, Dean following in tow, Nathan smacked Peter on the rear instead, shutting the door before Peter could protest.

 

Dean frowned, shaking his head. He was not going to ask about that. But Peter told him anyway.

 

When they were younger, people would always ask if Peter and Nathan were a couple. And, one day when Nathan couldn’t take it anymore, he pretended they were, and smacked his brother’s behind sharply. Since then, whenever Nathan had been feeling particularly playful, he would do it again.

 

“It probably wasn’t a good idea for him to do it this time, though…” Peter added solemnly. “I’m sorry for whatever made you uncomfortable.” Dean shrugged a shoulder.

 

The drive was deafeningly silent and painfully awkward. Peter could feel whatever  was bothering Dean had become more serious, but Peter couldn’t quite figure out what it was. He just hoped it wasn’t because of his Nathan’s teasing; he had already explained it.

 

\-----

 

Once back at Peter’s apartment, Dean dropped his keys noisily on the living room table, heading straight for the beer in the fridge.

 

“Okay, Dean.” Peter crossed his arms, the same effective, concerned look on his face that Sam had when he was worried or determined to get an answer. “What’s wrong? Tell me.”

 

Dean didn’t know how to lie to people, to a fault sometimes, especially when he had come to like them as much as he liked Peter.

 

“Your family.” Dean took a swig of the beer in his hand. “You’re rich, you’re smart, and I’m sure your mom knows that we’re together and hates me for it.” He snorted, taking another swig. “Heck, I don’t blame her. You’re too good for me.”

 

Dean regretted saying it, but it was always a thought that kept him up at night, burnt his insides, made it hard for him to get as close as he wanted to. Peter almost seemed surreal at times, and Dean couldn’t feel like anything but lacking.

 

Peter stared, his mouth practically hanging open.

 

“How could you say that?” Unlike what Dean expected, Peter rushed _towards_ Dean, and leaned against him, sharing his warmth with Dean. “I don’t care about what they think about you. I know what I think, and you’re exactly who I want to be with.”

 

He tried smiling, his fingers running up and down Dean’s arms and hands. “I became a paramedic so I could meet normal, decent people like you. I knew that I could find some rich, snob easily through my mother’s contacts, but I prefer the way I am with you.”

 

Dean didn’t know what to say, he glanced over at the wall, worrying his lip when he noticed how upset Peter was getting over this. Whatever he was going to say, he had to be careful.

 

“I just feel-” He sighed, swirling the beer in his bottle. “-like you’re too perfect. And so freakin’ out of my league.” Peter leaned in closer, holding Dean’s waist. “And no matter what, I can’t forget that.”

 

“You’re unhappy with me?” Peter’s tone softened even more, his eyes pleading. “What can I do? Tell me what I can do because I love you, Dean.”

 

That was the first time had Peter said it, which was unfortunate considering how things went after dinner, and why it finally came out. Dean was happy nonetheless; proud he could make someone as great as Peter love him.

 

“I love you, too.” Dean pulled away from Peter and put his beer on the table. “But that’s why I don’t think this is going to work.” The words hurt coming out, and it had to have hit Peter just as hard when the sentence and the meaning clicked together.

 

“So that’s it?” Peter scoffed, holding back tears. “You meet my fucking family and it’s over?”

 

Dean was never good at breaking up with people, wasn’t good at first impressions either, but he was even worse when it came to consoling people on the verge of crying. “Yeah, I guess so.”

 

And just watching Peter break down reminded him of the loneliness and sadness in himself he knew was going to come rushing back into his life like it never left. He missed Sam. He needed his advice right now; he couldn’t function in the world properly without him. Sam was always his voice of reason, pushing him in the right direction. If he were around, he would tell Dean how stupid he was acting. He would force Dean to grow up, and deal with his love for Peter.

 

“Fine,” Peter murmured, wiping a tear from his cheek. “Just leave, then.” And it was a test, Dean knew. He could hear it, could sense the hidden meaning behind it. Peter, for all his strength and charm, was very sensitive and reliant deep down. He wanted Dean to realize he would be better off staying.

 

But Dean could be a stubborn asshole sometimes, and always at the worst times it seemed.

 

Dean took his car keys, flinging his jacket on and whispered a quick ‘ _bye’_ , disappearing through the front door.

 

\-----

 

Peter never told Dean why he let him leave, why he felt too guilty to convince him to stay, but there was a reason. He was _different_ , and not just in the way that people often said they were. It was in his actual DNA.

 

Whenever Peter was near someone like him – someone with an ability – he could absorb theirs with a simple touch, and it stored inside of his body. But where exactly it went, even he couldn’t be sure. He could just feel it coursing through his veins, giving him an added edge, an advantage over not only regular people, but his fellow ability-users. He wasn’t the only one in his family that had something to hide, though.

 

His mother had dreams. Angela had dreams that warned them of accidents, of good fortune, of deaths even. Peter figured telling her he was seeing Dean was probably pointless since she had most likely dreamt of their break up before it happened. Maybe that was why she looked so unhappy when she met Dean for supper and he said ‘close friend’ instead of ‘boyfriend’.

 

And Nathan, as ordinary as he appeared (for a politician that is), had his secret, too. He didn’t tell Peter for a long time, but one day Peter dreamt of it—thanks to his mother’s ability. And suddenly he felt it, begging his body to be used. Peter confronted his brother about it, and Nathan admitted to it, finally stopping his lies. Nathan could fly, just like Iron Man or Superman could. He could soar through the trees, and be half way around the world in less than a few minutes.

 

The same way Nathan couldn’t tell his _own_ brother, Peter couldn’t tell Dean—the one person he had wanted to love completely. And for that, he didn’t bother stopping Dean, didn’t chase after him. Deep down, Peter knew _Dean_ was the one who was too good for him.

 

They did speak after that incident, but just as friends, and never nearly as intimately as they had once been. Dean filled his need for that intimacy with Sam when he returned, dragging him around on case after case, spending endless hours with his younger brother. It wasn’t like what he had with Peter, but it was close enough.

 

It had to work until Dean forgot about Peter’s smiles and tears.

 

*-*-*

 

Waking in a sweat, Peter has a vision of Dean, the man he hasn’t seen in years. It’s a bad dream where Dean is in trouble, fighting some man who is like Peter and _not_ all at once. Dean isn’t aware of people with abilities – which puts him in even greater danger since he doesn’t know what he’s up against.

 

Ghosts, monsters, demons are certainly powerful, but you expect them to be, and they stand out. However, when you have to face someone who looks like you, blends in, and suddenly they throw park benches and even statues at you, or lift you up and toss you across a room with a single finger, your reaction tends to be delayed.

 

And that is exactly what the man in Peter’s dream was capable of, that’s what he intends to do to _Dean_.

 

Without thinking, Peter uses all the memorable signs and buildings in his dream – a school, an empty field, a street name – to pinpoint the exact location where it will take place. He calls in sick for work, and flies straight there at full speed – thanks to Nathan’s power.

 

Dean would have to come to terms with his secret if it means it saves his life.

 

\---

 

For some reason, Peter is too early when he arrives in front of the high school from his vision. No one is here yet. He just hopes it’s the right spot.

 

Then, when Peter is preparing to fly elsewhere, there’s a gust of wind that nearly blows him across the field. Peter clings to a tree nearby, watching but seeing nothing, hearing some sort of aircraft landing in the grass.

 

An airplane suddenly comes into view, reflective panels deactivating one by one.

 

That was impressive camouflage; he couldn’t see it at all.

 

\-----

 

Erik is asking the librarian if he can use a computer for ‘research’ when he feels someone’s eyes on him. His senses are sharp, heightened by all the brutal training and brainwashing Shaw forced into him; he always feels when he’s being watched.

 

Thinking it better to confront the person somewhere where he won’t cause fear – and inevitably get himself restrained and tested on like some wild animal – he leaves the library. He can always come back later.

 

Erik stands outside for a while, wondering why the person hasn’t followed him yet. He laughs self-deprecatingly; he’s not going to get his revenge if he’s worried about which of Shaw’s henchmen is lurking in every corner.

 

When he’s down the street, he feels the eyes again. Erik swivels around, trying to catch whoever it is off guard, but there’s no one.

 

“You’re losing it, Erik,” he murmurs to himself. “Concentrate on Shaw.”

 

Before he knows it, he’s walking through grass and leaves, right next to a high school that’s closed for summer. It’s empty, morgue-like, but Erik swears he hears another set of footsteps behind him. He shakes the feeling off, and keeps walking past the school. Maybe he could break inside and use their computer lab…

 

Then Erik hears the footsteps, but when he looks back, he sees nothing. The strike to his jaw, the blow to his kidney, the leg that sweep his feet out from under him, however, confirms all of Erik’s doubts. He’s been followed, and this person means to harm him.

 

A man appears suddenly, hovering over Erik, fingers poised at his temple, and the sheer agony Erik feels forces his powers to manifest themselves. A stop sign flies toward the stranger, knocking him down long enough for Erik to rush away.

 

\---

 

Out of nowhere, the man in Peter’s dream comes into view, walking quickly behind someone else, someone clearly in pain.

 

Peter approaches slowly, trying to see if he recognizes the injured man. He’s about the same height, but something about him sets off alarms in Peter’s head. There’s a strange aura around him, something he’s become accustomed to. The man who’s limping is an ability user, too.

 

Peter shakes the thought away; he has to save him now, and worry about the rest _later_.

 

Just as Peter is running across the wide, open field, four men rush out of the plane that landed, and make their way toward the scene.

 

Peter recognizes one of them instantly to be Dean. He’s the real one, and not just the one Peter keeps seeing in his dreams. His laugh lines may have deepened, and his features may have become harsher, but that is him beyond a shadow of a doubt. Peter slows his pace, still walking toward the men, though.

 

Charles turns to Sam and Hank, pointing toward a man they don’t know across the grass. Dean’s jaw goes slack, the bewilderment apparent from across the field.

 

“That’s—that’s Peter,” Dean turns to Sam, whispering. “The dude I was with when you were away.”

 

“That’s _that_ Peter?” Sam answers in disbelief. “Looks like you really broke his heart.”

 

Dean’s eyes narrow, and he shakes his head. “Thanks, Sammy.” He glares at Charles and Hank when they eye him suspiciously. “ _What_? You’ve never liked a dude before?”

 

Obviously they have from the matching guilty looks on both their faces.

 

“Right. No matter.” Charles has to bring them back to the task at hand. “So he’s on our side, yes?” He watches nervously as the man with a cap on is closing in on the injured one.

 

Dean nods curtly, suddenly walking ahead, wanting to get past Peter as fast as possible to keep him away from whoever that man was. Sam tries to grab Dean’s shoulder to stop him, but he’s speed-walking now, and Sam has to jog to catch up to him. “Wait, Dean.”

 

“What, Sammy?” Dean’s face is tense with worry.

 

“We don’t have a plan,” Sam says quietly. “We can’t just walk up to that guy and talk him out of letting the other one go.”

 

“No, but we can put a gun to his head and force him into letting that dude go.” Dean’s brow creases with the intensity of his gaze. He’s not thinking clearly, not worrying about anything but stopping that guy before Peter reaches him.

 

Sam turns to Charles, raising an eyebrow. _Make him stay put if he gets anywhere near that freaky guy or something. He’s going to get himself killed._

_All right, Sam. But it will be your responsibility to explain everything later._

Charles nods when Sam does, placing two fingers to Dean’s temple. Charles walks past Dean when he starts to look thoroughly lost, eyes wide with confusion, and more or less obedient _._

 

Then Charles concentrates on the men ahead of him, trying to figure out who they are and what they are capable of. The man with the cap has a few names, as well as a few minds in his head, so Charles can’t tell which one he is. The one on the ground, dragging himself away, is named Erik Lehnsherr.

 

Hank knows what’s happening despite not hearing a thing, and he follows along behind Charles silently _._ They rush over to the man standing above the other, his hand hovering over the victim’s face in a way that definitely promises pain.

 

“Sorry, but I need your power,” the man says, a smirk on his lips. “Too bad I have to kill you to take it.”

 

“You can try,” Erik quips, his fingers trembling oddly for a moment. “But I won’t give up without a fight.”

 

The barbed wire around the football field starts shaking wildly, as though a gust of wind is swirling near it, threatening to yank it out of the ground. Inch after inch is pulled up from the top, and it flies toward the assailant, wrapping his hands and limbs in it efficiently.

 

Charles takes that moment to try and distract the attacker mentally, trying to force the illusion that they’ve all disappeared into his head. Unfortunately, he’s met with resistance, and lots of it. That static from earlier – like trying to go into twenty minds at once – only makes incapacitating him nearly impossible.

 

“I can’t-” Charles grimaces, two fingers still at his temple. “-hold him off for long. Help Erik.”

 

Hank runs to who he guesses is Erik, heaving him up with little effort. Sam goes to the other side to help drag Erik back to the aircraft.

 

With Charles’s mind busy holding the violent, psychotic man back, Dean is freed of his own mental prison, and collapses to the ground.

 

Peter ignores the struggle between Charles and the aggressor, instead flying over to Dean in less than a second. Dean doesn’t miss that, even if he tries to convince himself it didn’t happen, even if he wishes he didn’t see it.

 

“Are you okay, Dean?” Peter slides a hand down the side of Dean’s face. “Let me help you up.”

 

“Don’t-” Dean slaps Peter’s hand away. “Don’t touch me. What the fuck was that?” And it’s not the time or the place to be discussing this, but something in Dean just needs to know. He’s always felt like Peter was more than just human.

 

“What – I don’t understand.” Peter tries again to lift Dean, but is pushed away harshly.

 

“Don’t fucking lie to me! You flew.” Dean is fuming, his jaw muscles shifting under his skin. “Whatever, I don’t care.”

 

“I did.” Peter moves away to avoid being shoved again. “I can fly, yes.”

 

“So, what?” Dean looks away; too angry to look at Peter directly. “You’re a demon or something now?”

 

This is definitely not the right time, considering Dean can hear Charles panting from the exertion needed to keep that psychopath in check. But Dean feels so hurt, so betrayed that the only person he’s ever regretted breaking up with had either lied to him, or become this vile thing in the time they were apart.

 

“I’m—I’m not a demon.” It’s Peter’s turn to be hurt. “But we don’t have time for this now.” Peter looks over at Charles, who’s still struggling.

 

“Fine.” Dean stands up, still shaky from the earlier mind control. “You owe me a hell of a lot of answers later, then.”

 

“Dean…” Peter looks over at Charles, bent down on one knee, his eyes clenched tight. “I’m like him. I have powers, okay? Now, let’s go help them.”

 

Dean raises a brow, doubting his own ears, convinced he must have heard wrong. “Come again?”

 

Sam jogs over then, having left Hank to take care of Erik in the plane. “Dean.” He puts a hand on his shoulder lightly, careful not to startle him. “We have to help Charles.”

 

Dean wants to say one more thing, but before he can, someone lets out a shrill, painful cry, and it snaps them all out of this little argument.

 

Charles grunts, having lost the battle of wills, and ends up bent over in agony in the grass not far from them.

 

Sam rushes over to Charles, an arm under his head for support, trying to stop the pain Charles is feeling but not sure how. Whatever that man did to Charles, it doesn’t look like Charles is going to be able to help for a while now. And he was probably their best shot.

 

Laughing erupts, making Sam tear his eyes away from Charles’s crumpled form. Sam and Peter both glare at the man they don’t know.

 

“Excuse me guys.” The man smirks morbidly, unwinding the metal from around him without lifting a finger. “But the fun’s just starting and I’m the entertainment for today.”

 

\---

 

Hank notices how bad the situation is getting across the field, and shakes Erik a few times to try and wake him. When that doesn’t work, Hank tells him he’s going over there to help the others. “Try to wake up if you hear screaming,” Hank adds, half-jokingly.

 

To Hank’s surprise, Erik nods and sits up abruptly, grabbing onto the side of the aircraft. “I’m okay now.” He jerks away when Hank tries to help him to his feet, but sighs when Hank looks insulted. “I’m fine, I said.”

 

“Yeah, okay.” Hank walks backward out of the plane, tilting his head to the scene in the grass. “I’m Hank, and those are my friends fighting so…I’ll be over there.”

 

\---

 

Hank slows down when he gets close enough, trying to find a plan of action since his allies are all lying on the grass in pain.

 

In a matter of seconds, they were ambushed by stray benches, the fence from earlier, a tree – yes, a tree was uprooted – among other things.

 

Hank can’t do much but avoid the oncoming objects, hope he can keep his speed up long enough to shorten the distance between them, and force the stranger into submission with brute force.

 

“You should just give it up,” the attacker says finally. “I mean, come _on_. All I’m doing is flicking a finger and you’re using all your energy trying to dodge everything.”

 

Grunting in displeasure, Hank narrows his eyes. He growls from deep in his chest in an attempt to intimidate the man, his blue fur finally starting to show up. But it doesn’t seem to do much more than entertain him.

 

Hank pants while trying to avoid another stray object, but doesn’t miss it completely. His side gets cut open, and even being in his beast-like form isn’t stopping the pain. While Hank is trying to stop the bleeding with his ripped shirt, the attacker grabs a pole from the grass. He directs it behind Hank with another flick of his wrist, taking his time as he walks towards Hank. Once in front of Hank, he seizes him by throat, avoiding Hank’s very sharp claws, and aims the pole for an area that would certainly kill Hank.

 

At that very moment – and not a moment too soon – Erik uses the metal from the fence to propel himself towards Hank, levitating him so he doesn’t have to try and walk on unsteady feet. He sends the metal pole away from them with a flick of his wrist, using it to push the attacker back a few steps. He’s trying to force it through the sadistic man, but it’s clear to all of them that Erik’s stamina is far too low to take him on alone.

 

Charles crawls in the grass, latching on to the violent man’s leg before he can send any sharp objects at Erik or Hank. Charles fills the man’s mind with the most horrific, disturbing and frightening images he can muster. It lasts all of thirty seconds before Charles is being thrown across the field, much like the earlier items.

 

Peter doesn’t let Charles’s efforts go to waste.

 

He places a hand on the assailant’s arm to try and dig into his powers, grappling around him to avoid being thrown, too. There are so many abilities, so many different screaming faces shouting and pleading and begging to be spared, that Peter can hardly sift through them, never mind try to control them and call them up to the surface. Peter tries once more to at least find the ones this murderer has been using against them, but he collapses to the ground when the man swings around and his knee connects with Peter’s stomach.  Dean is next to Peter on the ground, still too hurt, from the bench he was knocked down with, to stand and help.

 

Sam – having nearly been thrown across the field along with Charles – holds his bruised ribs. Dean latches on to Sam, trying desperately to keep him conscious. Dean takes out his revolver, not knowing what else to do after seeing his brother, Peter, Charles – everyone – struggling. He shoots a few rounds in the man’s direction.

 

The man stops the bullets like bugs, pretending to yawn. Soon after, he sends them back the way they came, almost piercing through Dean and everyone else. But, instead of them all dying, and the man taking their powers like he plans to, the bullets are interrupted.

 

There’s a shrill, high-pitched screech and it stops all the bullets in their tracks. The man looks around, trying to find where it came from, but sees no one. The men on the ground are all still writhing in pain, holding their injuries…and looking up at the sky.

 

The man looks up and sees the shape of something falling towards them. There are dark shadows all around it, and the force with which it’s coming down is keeping the man from escaping like he wants to. The wind picks up, blowing, moving the injured men to one side, out of the attacker’s reach.

 

It’s like watching yourself drown in slow-motion; the man can’t take his eyes off of the creature headed towards him. When it lands – more like a crash – the ground shakes, and the dent the creature makes is impossibly wide. It looks up at the assailant, and it just seems like…a man.

 

A man, in a trench coat, is standing between the murderer and his prey.

 

All of the men, including the only one still standing, watch the creature, eyes wide with confusion. It really doesn’t look like anything but a normal person they’d come across on the street. It’s the aura, the stiflingly pure air around it, that keeps them all from dismissing it.

 

It looks at his hands, turning them this way and that way, sliding its fingers down the lapels of its coat, through his hair. Then, when the man raises a hand to send anything he can towards it, the creature’s eyes snap up and his hand reaches out. The man can’t breathe, but the creature keeps looking at his clothing like it isn’t bothered.

 

Taking this moment to check on the telepath, Erik lifts Charles’s head, inspecting the damage. He has a gash on the side of his cheek, and his shoulder may be dislocated from the yelp he lets out, but besides that he’s mostly okay.

 

“Can you stand?” Erik’s taken aback by his own concern, but he can’t help it. A stranger risked his life to save him. “Are you okay? What’s your name?”

 

Charles coughs, blood spilling from his lips. Maybe he’s more injured than Erik suspected.

 

_I’m Charles Xavier, Erik. And if you’re wondering why I know your name, I had to assess the damage earlier, and I took a slight look inside your head to figure out how to help._

 

Erik eyes Charles, his mouth agape. “You can read my thoughts?”

 

_I can do more than that, Erik._

 

Charles forces a smile in spite of the cuts inside his mouth and along his cheek. “I didn’t look into your personal thoughts or memories though, I assure you.”

 

Erik smiles, and it feels odd. He hasn’t smiled since he was a boy. It feels out of place. And more importantly, Erik knows the danger may not be averted. “Nice to meet you, Charles.”

 

Erik hears the attacker cough, and sees the creature’s grip still around his throat. Perhaps the situation isn’t entirely bleak yet.

 

Charles gets to his feet with the help of Erik’s strength, and they watch as the man trying to kill them earlier is now red in the face, fighting to breathe.

 

“I am Castiel.” He drops the man abruptly. “I am an Angel of the Lord sent to protect these men.” He watches the man rub the marks around his neck . “I will not allow you to kill your own kind for the selfish reasons in your heart. Heaven will have me smite you if you try, Gabriel Gray.”

 

“My name is _Sylar_!” he spits, wheezing for a few moments.

 

Sylar pushes himself up, secretly trying to get weapons close by to use on Castiel. “Whoever you are, your power would make a fine addition to my collection.” The barbed fence doesn’t even reach Castiel before Sylar is being held by the throat again.

 

Castiel’s face is completely blank as he continues. “Heaven does not take kindly to the murders you have committed, Sylar,” Castiel answers dryly. “Do not assume your life is worth more than the lives of these five people behind me.”

 

Dean nudges Sam. “Did he just say he’s an _angel_?” Sam shrugs, not even able to look at Dean, his eyes glued to Castiel like he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread.

 

Likewise, Charles scoffs, sending Erik _I tried to read his mind and only heard a language I don’t understand. He’s certainly not from around here_.

 

“It’s Enochian, Charles,” Castiel explains, his eyes still transfixed on Sylar, watching his every glint of emotion in case he tries to start again. His grip loosens when he sees all the fight is gone from Sylar’s mind.

 

“Is he like you?” Erik questions Charles, confused as to how Castiel could eavesdrop into their mental conversation.

 

“I have no idea,” Charles answers truthfully. “But I doubt that’s the case.”

 

Hank blinks, his body having recuperated enough for him to stand and think again. “Angels don’t exist.” All eyes turn to him. “..Do they?”


	5. Angel in the Outfield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at Castiel before he was given an important task.

Castiel stared, unaffected, looking down on the humans from the Heaven of an old man playing catch with his grandson.

 

There stood the men his superiors ordered him to look after. Castiel wasn’t used to having this type of mission, having been a soldier of God for many centuries. He grumbled at the sight of them and how weak they looked.

 

He didn’t particularly like humans, especially the ones on Earth – still alive and easily emotionally swayed. They reminded him of his older brother, Lucifer. They had a strong will, a mind always ready to disobey orders, and a general lack of discipline and faith in others. Evidently, Lucifer was less temperamental than the humans he loathed so much. Lucifer had one goal in mind, and that was angering his Father who sent him away. Most of these humans had nothing in mind when they committed terrible acts.

 

Castiel sighed, watching his charges heading straight for danger and not worrying about the outcome. If they joined forces, or at least bothered to observe the man they were about to face beforehand, they would know how outmatched they were in all aspects.

 

He was bloodthirsty, strong, analytical, and interested only in absolute power. He would be victorious – if Heaven didn’t need those men.

 

Sam and Charles were, to a fault, entirely too forgiving and kind. They would fall easily, quickly, to a man like Gabriel. Dean was a bit less sensitive, and could stand more of a chance if he weren’t so vulnerable and powerless—compared to the enhanced humans he was fighting alongside. Hank was too busy caring for everyone around him to worry about his own well-being, and Gabriel would use that to his advantage. Erik, perhaps the most willing to kill Gabriel if left in a room with him alone, was taken by surprise, and thus weakened before he had a chance to fight back with his full power.

 

Well, that was if Erik even knew how to reach his maximum potential yet.

 

Castiel stood, stretching out his wings, and letting the dark feathers flutter in the artificial wind of the old man’s Heaven one last time before having to confine them to the vessel he would automatically take on Earth. Even his vessel – a man named Jimmy Novak – was a disappointment to Castiel, considering his average size, intelligence and lifestyle. But at least he was a holy man, and that would have to be sufficient. His purpose is not to be imposing and terrifying, but to be a guide to the ones under his care

 

Gabriel was simply an obstacle Castiel had to confront first.

 

Castiel knew he did not want to become like those people, or his exiled brother, despite wanting to ask for a different task, so he drew in a breath – just for the calming effect, and not for practicality or necessity – and plunged deep into the clouds, heading toward the fight down below.

 

*-*-*

 

“I am here,” Castiel says when no one replies to Hank’s question. “Angels exist. Have faith, Henry.”

 

“ _Henry_?” Sam says under his breath. “Oh, you mean Hank.” Sam almost forgot what Hank’s real name was.

 

Castiel ignores Sam, and turns to Sylar, waiting for him to admit defeat and withdraw from attacking – for today at least. They stare at each other in silence until it becomes unbearable for everyone witnessing it, and Charles finally speaks up.

 

“Sylar.” Charles clears his throat, a hand dabbing at the blood on his face. “I can tell you are lost, that you need someone to speak to. I can give you answers, or at least try to help.” He lets more of his weight fall against Erik when the pain shoots through his shoulder. “Would you like my help?”

 

“No.” Sylar chuckles, looking away and rolling his eyes. “Seriously, do you know how pathetic you made me sound? I don’t need you.” He glares at Charles then points at Castiel. “And I don’t like being told what to do.”

 

“If you don’t want your existence erased…” Castiel steps forward, his dark wings flashing in and out of view. “Then I suggest you leave these men, and all others like yourself, alone.”

 

Sylar swallows, trying to seem as though he’s not scared, but how could he not be? This angel, or whatever he is, fell from the sky and landed without a scratch. “Fine,” he says after he sucks in air harshly. “I’m leaving. I’m not interested in these weaklings anymore.”

 

He disappears behind the school as quickly as when he arrived, allowing everyone to settle down and focus on their new priorities.

 

His blue fur gone, Hank lifts up his shirt to look at the cut there. It’s shallow enough that it will heal in a few days. He shuffles over to Charles, and tilts his head up, frowning when the blood drips onto his fingers from the cuts inside Charles’s mouth.

 

“I think you bit your lip or something when you fell.” Hank moves the skin of Charles’s bottom lip down, and sees a nasty splotch of blood, but it’s already drying. “Not too deep though.”

 

Charles manages a smile, ignoring the hiss he’d like to throw out instead. “Thank you but-” He looks at Erik still holding him up. “-I think he mentioned something about my shoulder being dislocated.”

 

“I didn’t actually say it.” Erik snorts, aiming his words at Hank. “But yes, his shoulder is out of its socket.”

 

Castiel is next to them before they even have a chance to acknowledge his presence, and he’s setting the bone back into place quickly and effectively, letting two digits linger on the sore area. Charles opens his mouth to scream, but the pain is suddenly gone without a trace.

 

“Wow.” Charles searches for the right words that could describe how he feels, but there’s nothing but gratitude in his mind. “Thank you.”

 

Castiel nods, turning to Hank and, without warning again, places two fingers on his side gingerly. When Hank lifts up his shirt to check, the broken skin from earlier is repaired. “That’s remarkable.” Hank pulls his shirt down, outstretching his hand afterwards. “Thank you, really.”

 

Castiel observes the gesture, trying to figure it out, but finds no harm in replicating it, so that’s what he does. He realizes his grip is a bit too strong though when Hank’s face twists in obvious discomfort. “Sorry.” Castiel moves away, looking toward Sam and Dean. Dean can hardly hold his brother up. “I’m still adapting to this vessel.”

 

Peter looks up at Castiel, his head still throbbing from the overload of powers. Castiel notices that Peter is conscious enough to talk to, and leans down at Peter’s side.

 

“You are-” Castiel narrows his eyes, visibly considering the least hurtful way to say it. “-similar to Gabriel, but not as accustomed to your powers yet.”

 

That’s actually much nicer than the ‘You are like Gabriel, only weaker’ Castiel was planning to say.

 

“I guess.” Peter holds his head, looking around at the others, searching for Sylar. “He’s gone? Everyone’s okay?”

 

“I suppose you could deem it that way,” Castiel answers flatly. “But it did not appear as though he was satisfied with the outcome.” Holding a hand out to Peter to help him up, Castiel continues. “I believe he will return again soon.”

 

Peter gives a wry smile in response. It’s obvious to all of them that Sylar’s not giving up yet.

 

Peter feels like someone is watching him after he manages to stand, and finds Dean glaring at him. Then Dean glances at his brother, and gives him the same look. It’s oddly comforting to Peter to know they’re in the same boat.

 

Castiel makes an odd noise in his throat, and looks up at the sky. He appears at Dean and Sam’s side, healing them both in a second. “I must leave now.” He’s gone before anyone can process what he’s said with his gravelly, horror film narrator voice.

 

Dean lifts up Sam’s shirt, and when he notices the bruises are gone he continues to glare at him in the way he was before Castiel left. “What the fuck, Sammy?”

 

Sam opens his mouth to speak, but Dean just puts his hand out to quiet his brother. “And you-” Dean looks Peter up and down, his mouth twisting with the intensity of the smirk on his face. “Peter, really? You couldn’t tell me? And I thought you were perfect.” Dean scoffs. “Guess not.”

 

Peter looks at Sam, wondering which of them might have more luck calming Dean down with an apology. Sam shrugs, gesturing for Peter to let him take care of it; he is more apt at dealing with Dean’s fury – in the past few years at least.

 

Charles slips into Dean’s mind – accidentally, of course – to see what he’s feeling and what may be the best way to diffuse the current discomfort.

 

_I can’t believe Peter wouldn’t tell me something so important. Worse actually, I can’t believe my own damn brother would hide something this big from me this whole time. What is wrong with them? Is it me? Can I not be trusted? Do I seem so fucking close-minded or something? Is hunting all these freaky, off-the-wall monsters not enough? Why do I feel like my brain is being tickled inside my skull?_

 

“Is that you again, Charles?” Dean grabs Charles by the collar, pulling him in close. “‘Cause you don’t need to dig in my noggin if you want answers. I can tell you exactly what the fuck I’m feeling, douchebag.”

 

“I apologize.” Charles puts his hands up in a pleading manner. “I was just trying to help.”

 

“Yeah, well.” Dean shoves him away, making Charles fall against Erik and apologize. “I don’t know you, don’t need your help either.”

 

Sam reaches out to Dean’s shoulder, and finds that he’s not met with resistance, but that Dean instead allows the touch to linger, his shoulders drooping. “Dean, I’m sorry--”

 

“Whatever,” Dean cuts Sam off. “I’m a shitty brother, right? I wouldn’t have believed you, is that it?” He shrugs Sam’s hand away, turning to Peter. “I was in love with you, though, you should have at least loved me back enough to tell me something.”

 

Peter opens his mouth to speak, and Dean’s fist is hitting him square in the jaw, killing the words before they leave his throat. Charles snuck into Dean’s mind too late to anticipate the anger and save Peter from the pain.

 

Peter’s hair covers his eyes, but Dean can still see that look, the same one his dumb, baby brother has on his face: a heaping amount of remorse. He always hated the way Peter had that look in his ammunition, ready to use, not even realizing what it did to Dean’s insides.

 

Peter rubs his cheek, not wincing when the mere skin on skin is a painful reminder of what might come again. “Dean I never meant to hurt you--” He moves his hair away, the reddening skin too apparent for Dean to ignore then. “I was just scared.”

 

Dean raises a brow. “Scared of me? Scared that I’d hunt you?”

 

“You did call him a demon, Dean,” Sam murmurs cautiously.

 

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean calls over his shoulder. “I have nothing left to say to you guys.” He gives Charles the same look he’s been shooting at his brother and Peter for the past couple of minutes.

 

“You know what? Here’s the last thing. Maybe I’m jealous. There are all these people around me, who can do amazing things, and I’m just here waiting to be killed by a vampire or a skinwalker for Christ’s sake.”

 

Charles shakes his head; doesn’t try to touch Dean to calm him, knowing he’s beyond being reasoned with. “You shouldn’t worry about being ‘normal’, as you say, because most of the world is in fact just that.” He smiles, his voice low and soothing. “We are the abnormal ones in reality. You should feel lucky to know so many of us.”

 

“Lucky my ass.” Dean grabs Sam’s arm and turns away, walking as fast as possible to the Impala. He doesn’t look back when he adds: “And don’t ever stick your finger in my brain again, or I swear I will shoot you between the eyes, Charles.”

 

Hank smothers the desire to tackle Dean to the ground and beat the crap out of him for threatening his best friend. He repeats the fantasy in his mind, over and over, until he’s satisfied instead. People with abilities have to prove they can be civilized since they are the minority.

 

“All right,” Charles says under his breath, aware that Dean probably doesn’t want to hear a reply. He looks over at Peter, offering him a compassionate smile. Physical pain has never been one of Charles’s strong suits. “I’m sorry I couldn’t prevent that.”

 

Peter shrugs, tucking his hair behind his ears. “I deserved it.” One side of Peter’s face is already starting to swell, but he used to get into fights a lot when he was young. This isn’t new to him.

 

Erik clears his throat, turning to Hank. “Can you give me a lift?”

 

Charles has already answered ‘yes’ in his head, but he figures it’s more appropriate to ask the pilot of the plane.

 

Hank nods, a smile appearing across his face where he seemed tense a few moments ago. “Yeah, no problem. Where do you want to go?”

 

“I- uh …” Erik suddenly feels like he knows them all, especially Charles, so well. He doesn’t feel lost, outcast, _alone_ anymore. He wants to continue to feel this way. “With you two.”

 

Charles chuckles and places a hand on Erik’s shoulder. “Glad to have you with us.” He remembers Peter then, wondering if he might need to get back home soon. “How ‘bout you, Peter? We can take you to your city, or you can join us at the mansion. I have plenty of spare bedrooms.”

 

Peter can’t help but feel relieved to meet more people like him, even if it means crossing paths with people like Sylar, too. Just knowing he has others on his side trying to do good Peter can continue on with his life, and be the best paramedic New York has ever seen.

 

“It’s okay, Charles. I’ll be flying back to my apartment now.” He shakes their hands politely, a feeling in the pit of his stomach that he hasn’t felt since he met Dean. “You guys take care.”

 

On the walk back to the plane, Charles is struck with – what looks to Erik to be – fear, panic, anxiety, all at once. Hank smirks, having already remembered what was back at the mansion waiting for them. She is most likely pacing and prepared with new techniques to pin them in when she finds out they were hurt and didn’t call her for help.

 

Charles sighs, seeing all of the images in Hank’s mind, but doesn’t mention that to Erik. “I forgot to mention…” His eyes shift around nervously. “-I have a sister, named Raven, and she can sometimes be overprotective of me and Hank. She lives with me.”

 

“And I visit quite often,” Hank interjects.

 

Erik chuckles. It was a smile before, but now he’s found laughter again. It comes easy once he realizes there isn’t another enemy to face. “Is that it? I think I can handle her after who we’ve just dealt with.”

 

That isn’t entirely wrong, but Charles feels like he needs to clarify. “I must warn you, Raven can have quite the sharp tongue.” He looks at Hank who is stifling a chuckle. “And claws perhaps sharper even.”


	6. Sanctuary Granted At Long Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Raven found a home with Charles, among other things.

Raven had lost count of how many nights it had been since she left the safety of her home. It wasn’t by choice, but it was her only option when her mother nearly fainted once she saw Raven’s true form. She wasn’t accepted there, she would never be. Normal people couldn’t understand.

 

So here she was walking in her true form – seeing as it was night time – blue skin and fiery, red hair, looking very small and young. She went across another nameless city, down a winding road, through a desolate park, hoping to find someone, anyone, that she would find someone who saw her for more than the navy flesh on her bones.

 

\---

 

The next day, when she awoke under a tree just before sunrise, the scent of something fresh and delicious crept into her nostrils. It buried itself deep in her lungs, driving her stomach mad with hunger. She hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday morning, and that was only because she had managed to steal a loaf of bread from a market.

 

The odour was calling to her, practically begging to be followed. And that was exactly what she decided to do.

 

It led her down an odd road with trees that went as far as the eye could see. They made her feel small and defenseless, but somehow guarded from unwanted attention and judging eyes. There were no houses along the path, save for one further down. One very large, very fancy, home. Logically, she knew the scent had to be coming from there.

 

Raven scaled up the side of the wall– one of her many abilities – and let her nose lead the way once more.

 

There was an open window, and Raven carefully peeked inside the house, wary of being caught after coming so close to filling her stomach to full capacity. When she was certain there was no one close enough to catch her, she climbed in through the window. Silently and as nimbly as a mouse, she landed on the kitchen tiles. Her limbs were close to the ground to avoid incoming weapons as she cautiously glanced around the black and white room.

 

There was a fridge to the left, and she dashed towards it, ignoring whatever the previous smell might have been in lieu of the appliance surely overflowing with food. She grabbed as much as she could eat right away: chicken legs, mashed potatoes, chocolate milk (which did not mix well, unfortunately). She hummed with the satisfaction of finally filling her growling insides.

 

“Who are you?” came a voice behind her, making her drop the carton of chocolate milk she was drinking from.

 

She prepared to run, but as she turned to look at the boy, something told her not to. She knew he was probably around her age, and younger people tended to be less frightened of her. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, standing tall in spite of her petite frame.

 

“My name is Raven.” She wasn’t sure if she should trust him or not, having been betrayed so often by the ones she loved most, but he didn’t seem to look at her with the same disgust as other had. Like her family had.

 

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered, taking a step toward her.

 

_I promise you I won’t hurt you. My name is Charles. I’m like you._

 

Her eyes widened, her head buzzing with a voice. But it wasn’t just any voice; it belonged to the boy standing in front of her. How could that be possible? And how could this ordinary boy be like her? “How did you do that?”

 

“I’ve always been able to.” Charles took another slow step closer, putting out his hand. “What can you do?”

 

She hesitated. She was still afraid to put her trust in anyone after all the days she’d spent in the cold, starving, tired, her feet aching, alone. But Charles – the air around him was different, yet comfortable and familiar. Before long, she found that she couldn’t help but smile.

 

“Watch this.” She climbed the wall, settling on the ceiling above him, and waving a hand.

 

“Wow!” Charles’s eyes twinkled with admiration. And even if Raven hadn’t seen it, she certainly heard it.

 

_That is fantastic, Raven._

 

“And this--” She let herself fall, landing on all fours. She stood up slowly, her skin peeling away as quickly as blades of grass moving in the wind, and changing into the mirror image of Charles.

 

Charles was so dumbstruck all he could do was applaud. “You’re absolutely amazing!”

 

She beamed at the reaction, shedding the skin as quickly as it came.  Charles was  much closer, no longer worried about frightening her, and pulled her in for a hug. His skin was warm and tingling with anxious, excited energy. Raven closed her eyes and didn’t bother speaking her thought aloud, giving him her full trust.

 

_Thank you, Charles, for accepting me._

_Who wouldn’t?_

Charles looked down at her. She was blushing, but he felt in awe of the beautiful creature who stumbled into his mansion, with her golden eyes framed by such a majestic shade of blue. He wasn’t sure which of them was luckier to have found the other.

 

“If you need somewhere to stay, stay with me.” His parents were hardly around anyway. And if they did notice Raven, he would say she was a friend who was very important to him. He wouldn’t allow them to send her away.

She nodded, snuggling closer into the heat permeating from Charles’s caring and sincere frame. Even though he was young, just like her, Raven could tell he was reliable and kind; everything about him told her this is where she belonged. So, this is where she stayed.

 

\---

 

As time passed, their roles somehow interchanged. Raven became the one always looking out for Charles, and prepared to fight off any and all people who teased him about being brilliant at school.

 

She found a way to keep her features intact while hiding her natural blue pigment – after having experienced some _trouble_ at her previous school – and she blended in even better than Charles could have imagined. Her grades were only average, unlike Charles, which helped to keep her off people’s radar.

 

But once they returned home, she would scale the walls of Charles’s mansion, playfully stealing his books away when he wasn’t looking, and he’d always look at her with adoration. The disgust never came.

 

\---

 

When Charles came back one day with a lanky, nervous man with glasses, Raven didn’t think anything of him. When the man turned out to be just as smart as Charles, her feelings still hadn’t changed - _much_.

After he stopped being afraid around her, and managed a shy smile while she was in combat training – all pearly-white teeth and dimples – she ignored the inconsistency of her heartbeat, blaming it on the exercise. However, when she saw him drunk one night and flinging himself up to the chandelier, dangling from it with only his toes, her heart nearly stopped in her chest. She ran back to her room and didn’t leave the sanctity of it until the next day.

 

She thought a lot about him after that, but she was afraid that he only saw her as a friend, especially since he looked at Charles with sparkles in his eyes whenever he was around. If he was in love with her brother, then who was she to stop it if it was mutual?

 

Then she noticed the way Charles looked at Sam, and instantly felt the same pinch in her heart that Hank was no doubt feeling. Their love was unrequited, and it hurt like a bitch even watching from the outside.

 

She became close to Hank in that time; always trying to think of his feelings and forgetting about her own to help him, just as Charles had helped her in the past. Seeing that Charles’s relationship with Sam went nowhere, she thought Hank might want to, finally, let his intentions be known, but instead nothing changed between them.

 

What did happen, though, took Raven completely by surprise.

 

Hank started to watch her with something suspiciously like longing in his eyes. His looks lingered, sweeping across her skin and leaving it upraised in its wake. She could almost sense when Hank was paying attention to her, and it made her so incredibly giddy, she didn’t know how to act anymore.

 

It became so awkward between them that she started to become aggressive without meaning to be, trying to mask the tension with playful hits. But Hank was too strong; he barely flinched when she would punch him, and that made her irrationally frustrated. Her ‘attacks’ increased in number, then in power, until finally she was tackling him and forcing him into submission on a daily basis.

 

Raven didn’t know how it became so out of hand so quickly, but it did, and the worst part was that he didn’t seem to mind. So she continued. And she did it again the next day, but this time he pinned her down.

 

She desperately tried to keep her excitement at being manhandled under wraps, but she must have failed, considering the seductive smile he had on his lips. And then he kissed her. She melted below him, her body instantly limp and obedient to his every whim. But he didn’t take her, whisk her away, ravish her like she expected. Hank was something else. Hank was…suddenly laughing above her. Raven was so startled, her eyes snapped open.

 

“I prefer when you put up a fight,” Hank teased, leaning in to peck her forehead.

 

And that’s how it went.

 

When her skin craved him on her lips again, begging to be needed by him, she resorted to violence against Hank, and he knew exactly what it meant each time. Though, after this happened for a few weeks, Charles began to look jealous that he wasn’t a part of the fun, and she tried it on him as well. He was weak with those he cared for, and she loved dominating her brother, almost as much as the kisses Hank stole from her whenever he won.

 

The daily battles lessened – at least with Hank, when he graduated and began to build machinery for private companies. But Charles was never so lucky.

 

Having to share a roof with the professional fighter who was lovingly dubbed _Mystique_ in the mixed martial arts ring was not a blessing. And on most days, Charles swore that Raven stepping into his kitchen was a punishment for a past life he couldn’t remember. It wasn’t long before Raven retired from her fighting career; she didn’t like being paid to brutally beat (every single one of) her opponents. It was much more entertaining to trap her brother in playful death grips, and watch him try to struggle out, for free.

 

*-*-*

 

Sylar wakes in a cold sweat.

 

The dream is too vivid to ignore; recurring every night since he met those weak, pathetic wastes of space – as he likes to call them. He doesn’t quite understand it, can’t explain why he’s taken an interest in someone so…good. But he feels like he should find Peter, try to talk to him, and get some answers from him. Sylar doesn’t even know what he should ask, but maybe Peter knows what to say. He seems to have found his purpose in life already.

 

There’s just something about Peter’s dark, sensitive eyes. And usually Sylar would deem that a flaw, a weakness, but Peter currently has a strong hold over his thoughts. He’s been on Sylar’s mind for days, and it’s getting pretty disturbing – even for Sylar. But, as much as Sylar would like to just get Peter out of his head and return to killing nameless, faceless ability-users and taking their powers – since they’re not using them anyway – he’s afraid.

 

What if Castiel really is an angel? What if he _is_ really being watched? What if Castiel could end his life in a snap of his fingers, even before Sylar has a chance to figure out what’s missing in his life and what his purpose is? There are so many ‘what ifs’ and no answers. There are no hints beyond the nagging in the pit of him to find Peter, and to demand answers. Without killing him, of course.

 

But how can Sylar find someone who doesn’t want to be found? Peter seems like the type who’d try and blend in as much as possible.

 

Sylar spends the next morning sifting through his powers, finding nothing even remotely close to premonition or mind reading.

 

Basically, whether he wants to admit it or not, his twenty powers have been rendered useless for the one simple task of locating Peter’s whereabouts. He curses under his breath; it would be so easy if he just found a victim to get that ability from. But Sylar denies the murderous urge. It’s done nothing but give him more pain than anything else.

 

Besides, he’s not ready to relinquish his life to an angel yet.

 

\---

 

He goes to a convenience store nearby to buy a newspaper and orange juice—feeling normal, too normal, by the way—and pays with the money he stole from his last victim’s wallet.

 

The guy was a business man with the power to manipulate water, and he never even considered using it for profit - the poor loser. He wouldn’t have had to work so hard trying to close deals with clients.

 

Sylar returns to his newly acquired apartment, walking outside and onto the balcony for some natural light. It was a good thing that the last guy was willing to give up his car and loft keys in exchange for his life. Not that it did much good in the end. Not that Sylar really feels bad now either.

 

As he sits down and unfolds the paper, he takes a sip of his orange juice. Most of it comes right back out, and sprays the passersby below. What he got to taste was pretty okay.

 

Peter is not only good and pure and selfless – like Sylar imagined - his family’s also filthy rich.

 

 _The Petrellis_ , as it says in the newspaper, are not only loaded, but important enough to have their own newspaper article. Peter’s older brother, Nathan, is running to be mayor. And the only reason Sylar knows that is because _there_ Peter is, under his brother’s politician arm. It also says they’re in New York City – the same city _he_ is currently in. And now Sylar has Peter’s famous last name at his disposal.

 

Sylar grins, taking a smoother, more enjoyable sip of his orange juice. It might be his imagination, but it seems to taste even better now. Now that he’s gotten the sign of a lifetime: Peter is the right guy to contact about his current existential crisis.

 

And if that article wasn’t enough of a sign, Peter is being awarded for his bravery as one of NYC’s finest paramedics a few pages further.

 

Sylar _must_ be doing something right in his life.

 

*-*-*

 

Dean is driving down a stretch of road, avoiding the upset (and upsetting) look Sam is throwing at him and has been sporting continuously for the past half hour. He keeps raising the volume of the old 80s rock on the radio rather than trying to deal with his brother’s incessant apologies, and the grief he’s shoveling at Dean over him hitting Peter. It’s simultaneous, something only Sam can pull off, really. It makes Dean feel like shit for two things at once. Dean regrets hitting Peter, naturally, but he’s too far gone to change what he’s done now.

 

Sam sighs and turns over in his seat, knowing they still have a long ways to go before they reach a motel. He curls up his jacket behind his head and tries to catch a few hours of sleep. They’ll be up for a while later doing research or arguing – or both. The rhythmic tapping of Dean’s digits against the steering wheel is all too common, and Sam easily falls asleep to the familiar sound.

 

_In or out of a dream, Sam can’t tell right away. The people he sees he’s already met, and it feels real enough to actually be happening. The sensations, the emotions, he expects to have aren’t there though. So, he has no choice but to assume it’s a dream. Then he’s walking through the darkness, with no one seeing him or hearing him when he calls out, and he knows it’s a dream._

_Peter is there, standing in an unlit area of a public park at night. The setting alone makes Sam worry for his safety. Peter starts pacing like he’s waiting for someone, and that person suddenly appears out of thin air. There’s no doubt as to who is capable of that._

_Sam is screaming for Peter to turn around, having forgotten his voice reaches no one’s ears. But it doesn’t matter, really, because Sam remembers that this is all_ just a dream _._

_Sylar is suddenly closer, and Peter looks scared even though he hasn’t spotted Sylar yet. Sam is still trying to scream for no good reason, because even in his dreams he can’t stand by while someone is in danger. Especially if that person is someone important to Dean._

_Sylar touches Peter’s shoulder, and Peter jerks away, taking a few steps back. He’s practically tripping over his own feet from how quickly Sylar appeared._

_Sam runs as fast as he can, blinded by the intensity with which this dream—if it even is a dream; Sam’s not sure any more—is wafting into his pores, telling his senses that this is for real. More palpable than the ghosts he hunts._

_Sam’s world is shaking side to side, he’s losing his footing, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to not only reach them, but to run at all. There’s a ringing in his ears, the volume of it seeming to get louder, and the scene is moving away from him, until all he can see is specks where Peter and Sylar are, flickering in a distant background._

“Sammy!” Dean calls, shaking Sam’s shoulder with more and more urgency. “We’re here, wake up man. You’re scaring me.”

 

Sam jumps out of his sleep, inhaling loudly, and looking around to take in his surroundings. It was a dream after all. “Dean?”

 

“Yeah, Sam.” Dean still sounds a bit shaken, but relieved. “You were out cold.”

 

“Sorry.” Sam undoes his seatbelt, and steps out of the car for some air.

 

Dean locks his side, following Sam out of the car, his eyes not leaving Sam’s face for even a second. “Are you okay?”

 

“I just…” Sam takes in a breath. “I had this nightmare. At least, I hope it was a nightmare.” Deep down, Sam knows it wasn’t one, though. He’s just afraid of what that could mean for Peter.

 

“Are you sure --” Dean scratches at his temple, looking for the right wording. “--it wasn’t some kind of vision, or whatever you get.”

 

“No, of course -- _wait_.” Sam blinks, walking toward the motel without bothering to continue his train of thought.

 

“Thanks for sharing.” Dean rolls his eyes, walking over to the front desk and paying, while Sam concentrates on remembering all the details of his dream.

 

\---

 

Sam waits until they’re inside the room to tell Dean what he remembers – which is everything up until the point where Dean was shaking him out of it.

 

Dean drops his bag next to his bed, letting himself fall onto the bed haphazardly, his hand coming up to run down the side of his face.

 

“Wait, wait. So--” Dean gestures with both hands, his lips turning down in disbelief, the creases around his eyes deep and apparent. “You had a vision that Sylar is going to go after Peter?”

 

“More or less, yeah,” Sam explains. He sighs, reliving the terror in his mind. “He looked so scared, Dean. But he was just waiting there.”

 

“Why would anyone willingly wait for Sylar at night?” Dean narrows his eyes. “I hope he’s not planning to fight him alone or something, that idiot.”

 

Dean tries to veil his fear with anger, but Sam sees through it. It really _is_ a disturbing thought; Sam has to agree. Sam didn’t even think of that as being one of the possibilities, but it obviously should have been considering Peter’s character.

 

“I don’t really know him, but I doubt he’d need to go that far. Not after what Castiel said to Sylar. But either way, we need to find him and stop him from getting hurt.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Dean unbuttons his shirt, throwing it onto the chair nearby. “I don’t know if you can control your - _thing_ , but I need some sleep and you do, too, so try and dream it again. Wake me up when you get some kind of hint about where they’re meeting.”

 

Sam nods in reply. They don’t have any other option, since the park is the only lead Sam has so far, and he doesn’t even have the name of it yet. Dean closes his eyes, but he’s noticeably bothered by this, pretending to sleep to reassure Sam.

 

Climbing onto the next bed, Sam lies on his back, willing his mind to cooperate for once and show him what he needs to see to find Peter.

 

_It’s the park – the same one, Sam knows – and Peter is standing alone like before. Peter’s fidgeting a lot more than Sam remembers, but that’s to be expected since he’s about to face a murderer by himself._

_There’s a sign nearby, and Sam feels stupid for not realizing, or remembering it sooner. It says ‘Central Park’ in big, white letters._

_Peter may be reckless, but he certainly doesn’t have a death wish, and chose one of the places with the most people around. But Sam can’t really see anyone around right now. And, yeah, it’s dark, but it’s definitely not the most dangerous place Peter could have chosen._

Somehow - and Sam’s surprised he managed it - he wakes up just when he wants to: at the moment he sees the sign as clear as day. There’s no way it could be anywhere else.

 

Sam shifts closer to wake Dean up, but notices a shadow near the bathroom, slowly walking towards them. For a moment Sam’s fear-stricken, a cold sweat collecting at his brow, and he wonders if it could be Sylar. But Sylar shouldn’t know where he and Dean are.

 

“ _Castiel_?” Sam asks, almost like a whisper, his voice wavering and hopeful. “Is that you?”

 

“Yes, Sam.” Castiel approaches the edge of his bed, crossing his arms. “You had a vision in your sleep, correct?”

 

Sam’s brow furrows in confusion. “Did you see it, too?”

 

“I have seen much more than you can fathom, Sam.” Castiel looks up at the ceiling, as though hearing something through the walls – which he probably is. “Do not pursue Sylar. I cannot let you risk your lives. You will do much good in the future.”

 

Dean doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, or maybe he does. It’s not his fault Castiel’s voice is so loud, so resounding, that he’s been awake and listening in ever since their conversation started. Dean can’t even form coherent sentences in his mind, but he’s awake enough that he can’t ignore what he’s hearing. He can’t just let Peter be left to face Sylar alone.

 

Sam is frowning, and Castiel is standing to leave, but Dean is the one who stops him.

 

“Wait, Cas.” The nickname – too familiar for what Castiel is and what he can do – just rolls off Dean’s tongue. It would have been too hard to say his whole name with how clumsy Dean’s tongue feels in his mouth. “Are you saying I should just stand by while Peter goes and talks to that psychopath?”

 

Castiel blinks, walking over to the edge of Dean’s bed. “It is what Heaven has ordered me to tell you both.” He looks over at Sam briefly. “I am simply relaying the message as I am your guardian.”

 

“But aren’t you supposed to protect Peter, too?” Sam questions.

 

“Doesn’t his life matter as much as ours? It’s okay for him to die, but not us? Is that what this is?” Dean snaps in a biting tone.

 

Castiel dips his head, mulling the words over in his head. “I suppose that would be one explanation, yes.”

 

“What the hell!” Dean shouts in protest, throwing the blanket off and standing. “I’m going to warn Peter now. And I don’t give a damn if you, Heaven, or Lucifer himself, wants me to or not.”

 

“No, I cannot allow that. I was specifically order--”

 

“Screw your orders!” Dean stalks toward Castiel, eyeing him with a cold look. “My friend is in trouble, and if you’re not going to help, then we’ll do it ourselves. Just like we always have.”

 

Sam takes that as his cue to start packing, and grabs his bag to push things in. Castiel sighs loudly, looking up, his shoulders drooping in resignation. “I will go, then,” Castiel says under his breath.

 

“What?” Sam asks, since Dean is too busy throwing things in his duffel bag to care what Castiel has to say.

 

“I said I will go to Peter.” Castiel turns to Dean when he finally stops his speed-packing long enough to pay attention. “And I will see to his safety, personally.” He frowns, narrowing his eyes. “Is that what you ask of me?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean replies automatically, not having to even consider it. “If you can save Peter, you should.”

 

Castiel nods, disappearing with a quiet flutter of wings ringing in both their ears. Sam sinks back into the comfort of his bed, glad that he can at least get some rest now that Castiel is dealing with what Sam saw. Dean is unpacking when he looks over at Sam. There’s a small smile creeping onto his lips in a devious way; he’s satisfied with the influence he’s already having on an _angel_.

 

*-*-*

 

Peter is dead tired when he gets home, having ran from one end of the city to the other, pulling people from cars, carrying them when they were unconscious, stitching them up or keeping pressure on their open wounds in wait of his partner, and letting them lean on him when they had sprained or broken limbs.

 

He’s on his way to the bathroom when he notices his voicemail blinking with a red number one.  It could be Dean bitching at him, a message from Nathan asking when he’s visiting again, Claire wanting to hang out…What he doesn’t expect is clicking the ‘play’ button on his voicemail, and hearing a very eerie, very unwelcome voice. He wasn’t expecting to have to confront him again so soon.

 

_Hello Peter_

_Didn’t know you and your family had such a comfortable life. Must be nice._

_Anyway, enough of the small talk._

_I’ve been feeling…strange since meeting you. I think it has something to do with our powers being so similar, and I want to discuss it with you. Just talk, I promise._

_But hey, I know you probably don’t want to show up, and that’s fine….except, I can’t guarantee the visit I give your family will be as friendly as ours. Just something to keep in mind._

_Meet me at Central Park as soon as you finish - whatever it is you do._

_See you there._

To say that Peter is shocked by the audacity of Sylar’s words, by the threats to his family, would be an understatement. He is utterly bewildered just trying to figure out how Sylar even found his number. And why does he think Peter is the right person to contact when Charles was more than willing to take him in after the whole incident?

 

Peter thinks Sylar might be bluffing. But if Peter’s wrong and he’s not, it’s his family who will pay the price for his mistake, and he couldn’t have that. So, without thinking it over more, he turns off the running water, grabs his keys he just put down, and doesn’t bother changing out of his uniform before heading out the door, ready to face the man who tried to kill him mere days ago.

 

\---

 

Peter gets there a bit after 1 am, long past the park’s hours. There’s barely a soul around – save for a homeless person here and there. As he paces, Peter almost considers rushing over to them to warn them, to ask them to move elsewhere, but Sylar arrives silently, striding up to Peter with a friendly air they don’t have.

 

One they’ll never have.

 

“Peter.” Sylar leans in to whisper, backing away when Peter visibly leaps from the sudden voice in his ear. “Whoa, take it easy.” He puts his hands up in a non-threatening way. “I told you I just want to talk.”

 

Peter narrows his eyes, crossing his arms. “Then talk.”

 

“Okay.” Sylar starts walking back and forth, looking for where to even begin with this mindfuck of his. “So, I think you and I are alike.”

 

“I am nothing like you,” Peter grinds out. He would never bring someone else’s family into personal matters just to make sure his terms were met.

 

“I meant our powers,” Sylar explains casually, ignoring the unnecessary attack. “We can both hold more than one, and take them from others.”

 

“I don’t kill people to take mine,” Peter says hurtfully, expression hard like unbreakable stone. He doesn’t know if it’s his fatigue making him this cut and dry or if he’s normally this way. He’s never met anyone deserving of all the hateful comments he’s currently thinking of. Sylar’s the first. “But yes, I can hold more than one.”

 

“Okay.” Sylar stops pacing, facing Peter. “But _why_ don’t you have to kill? Why don’t you _want_ to kill for them?”

 

And although Peter wants to laugh – because that is completely heartless, among other things – he can see that Sylar is being serious about his ridiculous question. “I like to _help_ people. Helping people and understanding them is what makes me feel complete. It’s the only way I feel I’m worthy of using these powers. It’s a gift.”

 

“ _Gift_?” Sylar sniffs, tucking his hands in his coat, and walking over to a bench. When Peter doesn’t immediately follow, Sylar gestures for him to come closer. “My ‘gift’ must be broken then.” He laughs wryly. “ _I_ must be broken.”

 

Peter’s brow creases, trying to figure out why Sylar would tell _him_ , of all people, about his insecurities and doubts. “It’s you who chooses how to live your life, like with anyone else.”

 

Sylar laughs, shaking his head. “You sound like a motivational speaker in some cheesy, made-for-TV movie.”

 

“Well--” Peter sighs, joining Sylar on the bench, but sitting at a comfortable distance from him: the other end of the bench. “Killing is not something that makes people feel very good about themselves, because it’s like you’re stealing a piece of them when you take their life. You should understand that better than anyone.”

 

Stretching his legs out, Sylar raises a brow. “Huh.” He crosses his arms. “So that’s why I feel like something is always wrong with me? According to you, I mean.” He’s not going to be so easily convinced that those people, with their insignificant lives, deserved to live if they weren’t using their powers to their full potential.

 

“I just know that if I had to murder people to become stronger, I couldn’t do it.” Peter looks away, seeing the homeless man from earlier still lying in the grass, unaware of how much danger he’s in. “Nothing is worth taking a person’s life.”

 

“That’s easy for you to say.” Sylar crosses his legs at his ankles. “You don’t hear people ticking away like time-bombs, just _begging_ for you to stop them and take what you can salvage.”

 

“Have you ever tried--” Peter slides his hands into his pockets, turning to look at Sylar. It startles him how close Sylar is sitting, and how unafraid Peter is despite now realizing that. “--not killing someone and finding another way?”

 

“You said it before,” Sylar replies quickly. “I’m nothing like you.”

 

Peter can’t, _refuses to_ , admit that he feels slightly sorry for Sylar’s slumped form leaning against the bench next to him.

 

“People change all the time.” And remarkably, Peter does mean the words. “ _You_ can change.” Peter watches Sylar for a moment, and looks away before he says anything else he might feel weird about having told a murderer.

 

“Thanks Dr. Phil.” Sylar pulls the collar of his jacket up, shivering in the cold, night air. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time I get the urge to open up someone’s skull.”

 

Peter feels his stomach turn at the image. How could anyone even consider doing that for personal gain? He needs to get out of here, away from Sylar. “So, are we done talking?” The chill in the air that hit Sylar earlier is crawling under Peter’s coat now. Or maybe it’s Sylar’s dark, violent presence.

 

“Not quite.” Sylar leans closer, dangerously so, and Peter tries not to stand up and bolt like his tensed muscles are begging him to. “Tell me Peter, how _do_ you get your powers from people?”

 

Peter shifts away; his personal space is being invaded more than he’d like it to be. He doesn’t mind working with people, but Sylar isn’t even human to him. Plus, what he’s going to say next… “Well, it only takes physical contact. From that, I can see what they’ve been through, how it’s affected them, and what their ability is.”

 

Sylar’s brows raise, curiosity getting the best of him. “So you just touch someone like us and that’s it? You don’t have to spend a year getting to know them, or perform any weird voodoo rituals?”

 

“ _Ritual_? Of course not.” Peter frowns at that, moving back against the bench and further away from Sylar. “I just try to understand them and it comes naturally. But I don’t usually know how to use what they have until I try it a few times.”

 

“That’s—hey!” Sylar’s eyes widen, a smirk following soon after. “So, you have every single one of the abilities I murdered to get just from touching me. How does that feel Peter?” He flashes Peter a shit-eating grin, leaning in to see how much _more_ uncomfortable Peter can get.

 

“I’ve been avoiding using them for that reason.” Peter glances away. “I don’t want to use those abilities since I know how they were taken.”

 

“Oh, come on, Peter.” The name glides off his tongue and across the air as if Sylar’s known Peter for so long, like they are _actually_ friends. And if Peter’s senses weren’t dulled by the chilliness of the night right now, he would tell Sylar to stop saying it like _that_. “What’s done is done. You should just enjoy them since you took them from me. And look--” Sylar pats down his chest and stomach. “I’m in one piece, I’m alive. You didn’t kill me to get them. Your goody-goody reputation hasn’t been tarnished.”

 

Peter can see that side of things, of course, but it doesn’t mean it relieves Sylar of all blame, all he had done to those victims. Their lives can never be returned to them, and all that’s left is these powers, stuck inside two very opposing personalities.

 

“That doesn’t change the way they were stolen, Sylar.” Peter isn’t sure if he imagines it, but the hurt that flashes across Sylar’s features almost seems genuine. Maybe Sylar is capable of changing after all.

 

“Hey.” Sylar shrugs, tucking his legs under the bench. “At least I’m trying here.” He slides closer to Peter, and Peter can’t move away because he’s already at the edge of the bench. “But since you have mine, how ‘bout you give me some of yours?”

 

Peter doesn’t like the tingling under his skin he gets at that, the promise those words leave behind, the hidden meaning in all of it. Sylar doesn’t actually _care_ about the powers – he could murder more people if that were the case – he just wants to be close to someone, wants that physical contact. And he knows Peter needs it, more than most others, because it’s part of what makes his powers work.

 

“I can’t transfer them to someone,” Peter explains, hoping that false ignorance can save him from this situation. “And I don’t want to fight you again.”

 

“I told you--” Sylar sighs, one arm stretching behind Peter on the back of the bench. “--I just want to talk. So tell me how I can do it, you know, like _you_.”

 

 _I want to feel it like you do, without the blood on my hands, without the constant tick-tock in my ears driving me to madness. I want to see if this way is more satisfying, more fulfilling, than mine. I just want to_ feel _things like you do, Peter. I want things to be different for once._

 

Peter doesn’t even know how or when he might have touched a telepath - the past few days have been a blur of events - but he can only think of one man with such an intense and burdensome power: Charles Xavier. And since he has this power, and Sylar has been watching him in silence for a few seconds, that all came from a train of thought and not from Sylar’s vocal chords.

 

Sylar is serious about wanting to turn a new leaf. It’s almost frightening to Peter; he doesn’t know how to respond, how to teach something he’s so used to having. And he’s worried about what kind of reaction Sylar might have if he can’t be taught how to do it Peter’s way. Or worse, if he decides killing is more appealing to him anyway.

 

“I can…” He kicks himself for the next words out of his mouth. But anything is better than having to chase Sylar down and save innocent people, or having Castiel erase his existence altogether. Sylar’s a monster, sure, but he wasn’t born that way. “Try, I guess.”

 

“Good.” Sylar is unmistakably closer, and staring into Peter’s eyes with a look that asks and demands things all at once. “How do I start?”

 

“I guess you should touch me,” Peter murmurs, afraid to let the words out, open to Sylar’s personalized interpretation. “And tell me if you feel anything different.”

 

“Sure,” Sylar drawls, his fingers wrapping around Peter’s wrist in an oddly possessive manner.

 

Peter closes his eyes, trying to offer up whatever abilities surface to speed the process along in any way he can. Sylar chuckles, and there’s a low growl to it that starts a current of shivers flowing across Peter’s skin. Despite his better judgment usually being in control, Peter likes this rush Sylar is sending through him.

 

“I felt that Peter.” Sylar’s voice sounds awfully closer than a moment ago. “You get off on this stuff?”

 

Peter’s eyes snap open at that. “Excuse me--”

 

Sylar takes that moment to yank Peter forward with the hand clamped around his wrist, sending his lips crashing into Sylar’s. Peter can’t breathe, but he can’t decide whether it’s the shock of being kissed by a murderer, the impact of their bodies hitting each other, or the feeling of all those innocent people and their powers spreading between them. Even while trying to process all that, Peter manages to shove Sylar away, and finally stands up.

 

“I don’t know if this is how you tricked all those people--” Peter wipes his lips with the back of his hand. “--but I don’t have time for whatever this game is, and I don’t intend to be killed either.”

 

Sylar snorts, shaking his head in a condescending manner. “I’m sorry, but you really think I bothered to kiss those poor saps?” And when Peter doesn’t respond, he continues. “No, Peter. I just killed them - quick and easy. They never saw it coming.”

 

Peter glares and starts walking away when a hand, that same one from before, grabs his wrist tightly, refusing to loosen when Peter tugs. “Let go, Sylar.” He tries to shake his arm free. “I’m done talking to you.”

 

“No.” Sylar is smiling, wider and wider, as his gaze traces the lines of Peter’s features. “I can read minds now.” He drags Peter closer, holding him steady when he almost topples from the sudden gesture. “So, it worked. Oh, that and, I can read _your_ mind.”

 

Peter curses under his breath; of all the powers Sylar could have taken, it had to be one of the most (irritatingly) useful. “What’s your point?”

 

“As much as you don’t trust me, you’re dying to help me.” Sylar gives Peter a once over, his fingers sweeping over the pulse in Peter’s wrist. “Even people who couldn’t read your mind could figure that out. You just like to help people. Don’t you? The beautiful gift that keeps on giving.”

 

Peter’s scowl fades a bit, and he turns away to take in a breath. He thinks he might have heard someone in the bushes, but there seems to be no one around. The homeless man is still asleep in plain sight. He looks back at Sylar. “Fine, Sylar.” He points down at his wrist. “You’re already touching me, so try again.”

 

“Maybe I lied about just talking.” Sylar drags Peter in again, knocking the wind out of him a second time with the sheer _need_ behind the kiss.

 

The non-violent, caring, pacifist that Peter is, he lets Sylar kiss him; it would probably be worse for him if he kept pushing back. Sylar doesn’t seem to take no for an answer.

 

“I need to--” Peter says, breathing heavily, trying to untangle the arms from around his waist enough to have some space. Sylar has a firm grip on his hips, keeping them pressed together at every inch possible. “--breathe, Sylar.”

 

“No you don’t,” Sylar teases. He dips down to steal another kiss while Peter tries to shift away to catch his breath. “You’re just scared. I can read your mind, remember? What am I thinking right now?”

 

Peter would dig in his thoughts for the answer if Sylar’s grin didn’t already tell an explicit story of its own. He wants to feel the same flow of emotion Peter does when he delicately takes a piece of others’ abilities away. But he also wants Peter, wants to delve deeper into the mystery of his endless empathy, and see if it can be stolen away or tainted.

 

Peter would be lying if he said it wasn’t a turn on the way Sylar is staring at him, practically begging for permission, but that’s just not how Peter works. “I don’t take strange men home,” Peter says seriously. “You have my number, don’t you? Use that to get in contact with me.”

 

Sylar nods, leaning in to claim Peter’s lips and kissing air instead. Peter’s backed away, both hands free and holding Sylar off at a safe distance. He may be smaller, but it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s weaker. And now that all Sylar has on his mind is making out, foreplay and sex, it makes it a lot easier for Peter to slip out of his grasp.

 

“See you around,” Peter calls, walking backwards as he heads out of the park and towards the warmth of his apartment.

 

Sylar may have won the battle, but the war is far from over, and Peter is set on bringing the reckless, dangerous man to his side.

 

Peter senses something odd behind him or watching him on the way home, but he shrugs it off as a mixture of fatigue, relief for not having to confront Sylar – far from it – and the strangeness of the evening as a whole. If someone _is_ lurking, however, well that’s good for them. And may God protect them because Sylar doesn’t seem to like sharing very much.

 

\---

 

Castiel couldn’t decide which bush was best, which tree was more inconspicuous, or which shadow would allow him to blend in most, so he brushed past some grass without meaning to, and Peter’s eyes darted directly in his direction. Castiel was thankful then – almost uttering the Lord’s name in vain – as he remembered that Peter didn’t acquire an ability which would allow him to see at night.

 

He started to breathe again—not that he needed to, but he admired the way humans did that—when Peter turned back to face Sylar,  and Sylar’s eager lips pressed so roughly against Peter’s that Castiel couldn’t decide if he should intervene or tear his eyes away to give them privacy. He decided on the latter, fortunately, because Peter seemed fond of the action and even wanted more of it, regardless of his protests.

 

Castiel stepped past the tree he was next to, unsure of how to take this new revelation, this unforeseen outcome to Sam’s premonition. The following challenge was how he could explain this to Dean, and if he should even bother doing so – considering his people skills were ‘rusty’ (see: inexistent).

 

With the same rustling he produced when he arrived, Castiel left just as Peter was walking away with a genuine smile hanging from his lips.

 

*-*-*

 

Dean is practically pulling his hair out since Castiel hasn’t returned with good news yet or bothered returning at all. He’s known the angel for some time now, and he knows that he should have more faith in him. And other people in general. It’s hard to do that though, when he’s aware that Castiel would be willing to sacrifice Peter - if it meant a chance for him to extinguish the fire that is Sylar.

 

He doesn’t want to bother Sam with his worries, and he wouldn’t in the past either, so he pours himself a tall glass of Jack Daniels instead. He hopes he can get drunk enough to pass out and not have to deal with insomnia as well as concern in the morning.

 

*-*-*

 

The following night, Peter returns home late again, and doesn’t even have time to change out of his work clothes when there’s a knock at his door.

 

Apprehension isn’t something he usually feels, but past midnight on a weekday, anyone would be a bit worried about someone being at their door.

 

Peter is no coward though, obviously, and he drops his bag next to his sofa, checking through the peephole - just to be safe. It’s Sylar. He was probably the one who made Peter feel like he was being watched last night. But he doesn’t have that mischievous smirk glint in his eyes today. His smile is smaller, almost bashful.

 

There’s no denying that Peter’s certainty, his trust in Sylar’s sudden change of heart wavers a bit—with good reason, no less—but Peter isn’t accustomed to turning people away when they ask for help. And Sylar is on his knees, so to speak, pleading for a hand to reach out and guide him towards the right path.

 

They both know what awaits Sylar if he can’t change: Castiel smiting him.

 

Peter sighs, knowing he’ll most likely regret letting the reformed serial killer into his home, but his kindness gets the best of him, and he caves. He unlatches his locks quickly enough that he can’t change his mind.

 

Sylar leans in, trying to kiss Peter before Peter figures out what he’s up to, but Sylar fails. Peter may be tired, but he’s not stupid, nor is he easily swayed by anyone – especially not the big, sensitive ones. Sylar can blame Dean for Peter’s reluctance towards that _specific_ type of man.

 

“How do you know where I live?” Peter says dryly, keeping Sylar back with one hand, blocking him from entering his apartment. It’s on his time, in his place, so he’s going to make the rules.

 

“I followed you.” Sylar looks past Peter, smiling when he confirms that Peter doesn’t have any guests over. “Not that I needed to. Your family business is all over the papers around here.”

 

“You followed me just now or last night?” Peter doesn’t really care either way, although he should, but he’s curious to know if his senses are still as keen as he thinks.

 

“Last night.” Sylar tries to push in past Peter and meets the firm hand again. He sighs. “Can I come in?”

 

“Sure.” Peter shuts the door in Sylar’s face. He takes his time settling in; picking up his bag, putting it in his bedroom, stretching, putting on deodorant in case he doesn’t smell too good after work, and then returns to open the door. “Come in.”

 

“What was that about?” Sylar grins. “For a moment, I thought I got you all wrong and you were actually a big tease.”

 

“I wish.” Peter walks toward his room, pulling off the blue sweater with the name tag he’s been wearing all night; it’s starting to itch. “I’m probably the opposite of that.” And he says it louder than he needs to, thinking Sylar is across his apartment. When in fact, he’s all the way _here_ —right next to him—invading his personal space, _again_.

 

“Nice outfit.” Sylar’s eyes trail over each item of clothing very, very slowly. “I wanted to say that yesterday actually, but my tongue was occupied with…other things.”

 

Peter has no doubt as to what’s on Sylar’s mind; he’d be able to tell even if he wasn’t in touch with other people’s emotions and body language to such a high degree. “Do you mind not following me into my room?”

 

“I don’t mind.” Sylar’s lips curl, running a hand down Peter’s arm gently. Peter pulls away. “All right, you prude. You know, I’m going to need to touch you anyway.”

 

 _It’s better to be safe than sorry_ , Peter thinks, but Sylar can still read minds. And he frowns when he remembers that. “I’m sorry, just--” Peter sighs. “You can’t expect me to trust you right away.” He scoffs, unbuttoning his dress shirt. “You tried to kill me and my friends, Sylar.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Sylar admits as he goes to sit on the sofa in the living room. “I’m unpredictable, what can I say?”

 

Peter can hear through Sylar’s words that he’s smiling again. Can you say understatement of the century? Sylar is the single most unpredictable, frightening, and manipulative man Peter has ever met.

 

“Can I get you something to drink?” Peter finishes undressing, folds everything, and puts it on his dresser to be washed tomorrow. He slips on jogging pants and a sweater, heading in the direction of a whole lot of trouble.

 

“Yeah.” Sylar is looking through Peter’s DVD collection in a shelf near the television, his finger grazing the title on each box, deciding if he agrees with the movies Peter likes or not. “Just water is fine. You like to watch documentaries, don’t you?”

 

“I’ll be just a second.” Peter disappears in the kitchen, but continues talking from there. “Yeah, especially the ones filmed abroad. Why? You don’t?”

 

Peter returns with two glasses of water, placing them both on the coffee table in front of the television. Sylar takes his and sips it, peering over at Peter curiously. “I like them just fine, I just prefer fictional stories.”

 

Peter nods, just to be polite. “So, why are you here? Besides wanting to kiss me again, I mean.”

 

Placing the glass down, Sylar turns in Peter’s direction, crossing his legs. “I have trouble sleeping. Honestly, I don’t really sleep. And I figured you might be able to help me with that, or at least keep me company through my insomnia – since you work nights.”

 

“You’re lucky I’m off tomorrow,” Peter says flatly, bringing the glass to his lips. He avoids making eye contact with the bulge in Sylar’s pants - just waiting to be touched and caressed, or so he imagines from the look on Sylar’s face – because that’s not something Peter wants to deal with.

 

Sylar needs to learn boundaries, rules, _patience_. And maybe Peter is the perfect one to teach him those things.

 

*-*-*

 

Dean hasn’t slept in hours, maybe days. He lost count after the first 24 hours went strolling past, giving him ulcers and hallucinations. The Jack Daniels did nothing but make his already upset stomach worse, and keep him up all night with nervous energy through his worries, rather than knock him out like he’d hoped.

 

He tries not to think about why he hasn’t heard anything from Castiel yet.

 

\---

 

Sam doesn’t ask because he already knows _why_ Dean is on edge, why he’s snapping for no reason, why the circles under his eyes make him look older than he is. Castiel hasn’t returned in weeks, and that can mean a lot of different things – most of which are unpleasant.

 

Worst case scenario would be that Sylar found a way to kill, not only Peter, but an Angel of the Lord. Best case scenario, which is highly unlikely as well, would be that Sylar just went away quietly, and all parties are safe and just too busy to tell Dean about the good news. That option kind of sucks for Dean, but at least, in that case, he would have someone to let his frustration out on.

 

Another scenario, one that Sam thinks might be the real one, is that Castiel arrived too late, and Peter was already dead. And maybe Castiel wasn’t given permission to heal Peter, so he doesn’t know how to tell Dean the bad news. But Sam knows Dean has never been an optimist; he’s probably started picturing Peter bleeding and broken on the ground with a silent and remorseful angel standing over him.

 

So, instead of scolding Dean or making him feel guilty about his binge drinking, Sam lets him indulge, lets him be as upset and worried as he needs to—for now at least. It’s only been a couple of days.

 

Dean fishes in his bag for another bottle of alcohol. This time it’s whiskey. Dean doesn’t know if it’ll have the same effect or if he’ll finally get a couple hours of shut eye, but it can certainly blur the scenery around him enough that he doesn’t have to look at that expression on Sam’s face anymore. Sam keeps looking at Dean like it’s all Sam’s fault or something ridiculous like that. Sam’s just the messenger, and Dean isn’t stupid enough to want to shoot those guys.

 

Twisting the cap off, Dean takes a gulp straight from the bottle, closing his eyes in hopes that it improves (and quickens) the effect somehow.

 

Then he takes another, and Sam is turning his back to him. Sam takes his laptop out to do research on news of recently deceased people – possible cases - because this is hard for him to watch.

 

When Dean can’t even see his fingers when he puts them in front of his face, he stops and lies down on his bed, not expecting a body to already be there, sitting on the edge quietly.

 

“Hello Dean,” Castiel greets softly, careful not to frighten his human charge. “I have completed the task.”

 

Dean stumbles off the bed, needing some kind of leverage over the seated angel. Standing up, as dizzy as he is, is as good as it is going to get. “Where the hell were you, Cas?!” He glances at Sam who is hiding behind his laptop, but of course watching. “Did it take you this long to find Peter and save him or was I just not important enough to be told what happened?”

 

“Dean, you’re angry.” Castiel stands, walking around the bed to face him.

 

“Damn right I am!” Dean glares, pointing at Castiel the best he can without falling right into him. “You better have good news, or I swear to God--”

 

“Do not use my Father’s name in vain. Peter is safe,” Castiel interrupts. “I assure you no harm has come to your friend. He is perfectly healthy, if not for his minor insomnia, which you seem to share.”

 

“Gee, Cas.” Dean stumbles, trying to push past the angel and get some space between them. Castiel doesn’t let him go far though, following closely on Dean’s heels like a puppy. “I wonder why I’m angry. Maybe it’s because I didn’t know if you even _cared_ if Peter died at all. Maybe you were dead for all I knew.”

 

Castiel’s brow creases. “I could not be killed by someone who did not even know of my existence.” He grabs Dean’s shoulder when he sees Dean’s stance begin to falter. “Are you inebriated?”

 

“Yes, and it’s your fault!” Dean lets his body fall back onto the bed, instantly feeling more secure. “Damn it, Cas. You could have popped in sooner and told me. You’re a freakin’ _angel_ for crying out loud. You can fly or teleport or whatever it is you do with your wings.”

 

“I apologize.” Castiel shifts his gaze to Sam to include him in the conversation. “I am sorry if I worried either of you. But I have difficulty with human emotion, and I did not anticipate it would be a problem so long as Peter was out of harm’s way.”

 

“You’re lucky he’s all right.” Dean glares. “Or I would have found a way to kick your feathery ass, I swear.”

 

“Dean,” Sam says, finally getting a word in. “You should just be glad he came and told us at all.” He closes his laptop, looking up at Castiel. “Are you okay?”

 

“As I said before, Sylar cannot inflict pain upon me. And he seemed interested in something else…” Castiel breaks eye contact with Sam, and avoids Dean’s questioning look at the same time.

 

“Something _else_? Are you sure Peter’s okay, Cas?” Sam asks carefully, seeing the lines of tension returning to Dean’s form on the bed. If Sam doesn’t ask, Dean will start swinging, and that won’t help anything.

 

“Before I left, I saw--” Castiel clears his throat. “Sylar was--”

 

Dean’s cellphone chimes with an alert for a text message. Usually he wouldn’t check right away because Sam is the only one who sends texts, but it’s a weird night, and he has a feeling he should read it now.

 

_Hey Dean, it’s Peter. I just wanted to say I’m sorry again for not telling you about my powers. I hope we can put all this behind us and be friends one day. Take care._

 

Dean doesn’t bother typing a reply – he can’t even see his fingers so how can he see numbers? – and presses the ‘call’ button instead. His phone dials the number the text came from, without needing any of Dean’s help. Thank God for small mercies.

 

*-*-*

 

Peter gets used to Sylar’s nightly visits somewhere along the way.

 

\---

 

At first, Peter threatens Sylar when he gets too close (or tries to touch Peter in a sexual way again). It barely keeps Sylar’s hands off his body, so Peter resorts to the only thing Sylar seems to understand: violence.

 

The swollen cheek Sylar has is a reminder that Peter doesn’t appreciate being taken for a coward. He doesn’t fall for murderers’ ploys, and he doesn’t want to be confused for someone who would. Peter is helping Sylar as a _favour_ to him; Sylar has no right to demand anything else of Peter. There’s nothing else offered on the table.

 

After a while of Sylar coming over - taking over Peter’s apartment, eating his food, and then figuring out how Peter works thanks to his first ability - Sylar understands that Peter likes things to move slowly. Peter would _like_ to say Sylar is wrong about that, but he knows he isn’t.

 

He stops throwing punches at that point because there’s no reason for him to hit Sylar when he’s stopped being overly raunchy and physical. (And homicidal.) He’s just there, being a decent – or decent for him, considering he killed dozens of people – human being and learning how to take things from Peter passively, one power at a time.

 

Then Peter feels secure enough that he tells Sylar his work schedule, so he can come over whenever he needs help with one of the powers. If Nathan knew, if _Dean_ knew - if anyone knew, really – they would question Peter’s sanity.

 

But Peter isn’t crazy; he’s spent a long, long time keeping Sylar on a leash, and he hasn’t once hit back when Peter used to fight him to keep him at bay. That requires _true_ self-restraint that even the nicest person might not be capable of. It’s very impressive; Sylar’s progress is going incredibly well. Maybe the prize is Peter’s trust and not the extra powers.

 

When Peter finishes work, Sylar is always moments behind, knocking on the door just as Peter is trying to change out of his uniform. It’s surprisingly normal between them, besides the fact that they have to touch once in a while to share abilities. They hang out, watch movies, and talk about their families. And Peter – praying that his instincts aren’t wrong - starts letting his guard down.

 

It takes a few more weeks of Peter teaching Sylar empathy and about physical contact that doesn’t require violence - which Peter doesn’t so much avoid anymore as look forward to - but eventually they have _all_ of each other’s powers. They start using them to see if they’re improving, and the other gives tips on how to control them better - when it doesn’t go exactly as planned.

 

(A couple of times, Sylar and Peter end up sweaty and panting, and nothing to do with any enjoyable physical exertion. If only Sylar could be so lucky.)

 

There’s a common struggle, though.

 

Together they try to understand and control the full extent of Charles’s powers. It’s easy for him since he was born with them, most likely, but for them…it’s a nightmare. Sometimes the thoughts they send out are too dangerously loud, almost piercing eardrums, and other times they can’t mute the minds they don’t want to hear at all. 

 

And, if that isn’t bad enough, if they’re not careful, they often break things in stores when their mind decides to levitate them without their knowledge. It’s a good thing Peter’s family is rich enough to cover the damage or Sylar would be in prison right now, considering the amount of antiques he’s broken.

 

But how else could Peter get Sylar nervous enough to help him control the telekinesis without the abundance of fragile objects?

 

As much as Sylar is careless with strangers, and often uses his powers to creep them out a bit, he clearly likes Peter and doesn’t want him to have to constantly spend money on repaying the broken vases and dishes. Sylar cares for Peter; that much is obvious to both of them.

 

Then, just as Peter anticipated, Sylar starts flirting again. Peter doesn’t mind so much anymore.

 

And when Sylar, at long last, decides to kiss Peter – after weeks of taking their time and letting Peter get used to the idea – that’s when Dean decides to call to make sure Peter is doing all right.

 

This is what Murphy’s Law looks like, isn’t it?

 

\---

 

 

Sylar’s tongue is thoroughly and expertly searching the inside of Peter’s mouth. Sylar’s erection is pressed against Peter’s thigh in a teasing way and…Peter’s cell phone _rings_. Peter doesn’t recognize the number, but since he just changed his number recently, that’s to be expected. He answers with one hand keeping Sylar at a safe distance from his lips - in case it’s his boss asking him to take on another shift.

 

“Hello?” Peter clears his throat, trying to sound at least halfway professional.

 

“ _Peter_? It’s Dean.” Dean frowns at the strange tone in his friend’s voice; maybe Peter’s not okay after all. “Are you busy or something?”

 

“No, I - I just got home.” Peter gulps when Sylar’s fingers trace the inside of his thigh slowly. “I’m just tired. So, what’s up?”

 

“I just wanted to let you know I’m not mad anymore.” Dean looks at Sam who is gesturing for Dean to add more to the apology. Dean audibly grumbles at that; Sam smiles, unremorseful. “And that I get it. I understand why you’d want to keep that a secret. I guess it’s like how I don’t tell people I’m a hunter.”

 

Peter shifts, pushing Sylar back further so he can concentrate on what’s being said. “Really? So--” He grabs Sylar’s fingers when they reach out for the front of his pants; there’s no way he’s going to moan in Dean’s ears when he’s finally – _finally_ – being so open with his emotions.

 

“We’re okay then? We can be friends?”

 

“Yeah.” Dean shrugs, turning away from Sam who is flashing a blindingly proud smile at his maturing big brother. “I mean - I never hated you or anything. I lost enough people in the past. I need to keep someone around.”

 

“I really appreciate that, Dean.” Peter smiles against the receiver, getting an eye roll from Sylar in response. It’s a surprise Sylar’s being patient at all, actually. “But right now I’m kind of swamped. Can we catch up another day?”

 

Sylar nods enthusiastically, climbing over Peter and claiming the side of his neck as his property, purposely sucking and moaning near the phone so Dean will hear. Peter pulls away, covering the phone with his hand. “Sylar, just wait a second please.” Peter’s brows draw together in frustration; he can’t believe Sylar can’t even _try_ to act like he cares what part of Peter’s life he’s ruining. He’s almost done anyway.

 

“I’m done playing by your rules.” Sylar presses Peter down into the couch, cupping him through his jogging pants, making Peter hiss in pleasure. “I’m pretty sure you’ll like mine better anyway.” He trails his lips up the side of Peter’s neck, distracting him enough to snatch the cellphone away and snap it shut.

 

“ _Hello_? Peter? Are you talking to someone?” Dean asks, squinting at his screen when he sees ‘call lost’ blinking at him like some kind of stupid taunt.

 

Sam wants to ask if Peter’s okay, but he knows it’s probably best Dean deals with it himself, especially since he tried so hard to open up to Peter.

* * *


	7. One of Those Love Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're like Romeo and Juliet, but without the dying.

At first, the relationship between Charles and Erik is like any other mutant relationship Charles has had.  It’s the same as the one he had with Sam and Hank back at Oxford…But Erik is much more obvious about his real interests.

 

He visits Charles, in his room, every day starting after the first, awkward week. They play chess once in a while. And they have matches, while Erik tries to deal with this new environment. It’s unfortunate that Charles doesn’t have a power to heal his mental scars, just as Castiel could heal the physical ones, but they make do.

 

Hank sometimes walks through the halls of the mansion late at night, wondering why there’s light coming from underneath Charles’s bedroom door. Then he remembers that Erik has probably gone in for a game of chess again.

 

Sometimes they have multiple matches. Sometimes there are added regulations, rules – ones that don’t exist in the game – which they add to make things more exciting. Like bets where winner takes all. Often, on these nights, no one wins at all because they’re having so much fun that they don’t want call a winner, and have it all end.

 

Later, when Erik is feeling slightly more at home, Charles isn’t tiptoeing around him anymore, and Erik has accepted the fact that there are others like him all over the world, he begins to truly live with them in the mansion. He realizes now that not all mutants are mean like some have been to Erik in the past. Like Shaw who killed his mother, killed his childhood, killed his dreams. And, let us not forget about the torture.

 

Charles is completely the opposite.

 

He does nothing but teach Erik how to be kind, how to respect life, how to respect the world, how to understand others. He is so extremely wise for such a young man, and he’s actually a few years younger than Erik. But judging from his character alone, Erik would assume that Charles is his elder. He speaks like an old man at times, one that’s fifty years old or more, with children, and grandchildren even. That may be why Erik is so fond of Charles after only a few weeks.

 

Charles is someone Erik knows he can count on.

 

And, so, Erik wants to open up - which he’s starting to. Slowly. He’s sharing everything he can while Charles never interrupts, and never prods for more. Charles sees Erik a lot, he realizes; he gives Erik most of his free time.

 

They eat together, play chess, and go for walks or runs... Sometimes Erik has nightmares about his past, and Charles allows him into his room to wake him up whenever he needs the company. At times, Erik falls asleep in Charles’s room. Charles never tells him to leave; he lets him stay until morning.

 

Eventually, Erik feels comfortable enough for physical contact, so he starts to hug Charles; he starts to feel things for him. He starts to _feel_ – period.

 

It’s strange, probably, but Erik never really liked anyone in the world. Charles has somehow crept into his heart, and become someone he appreciates. And he truly believes he can build something incredible with Charles; that they belong together; that they were meant to be.

 

Charles always, without fail, treats Erik in a way that convinces Erik that they have a chance together. That this could possibly be their destiny. Perhaps it was due to fate that they found each other in that battlefield, even though they were from completely different corners of the globe originally.

 

Charles adores Erik. He’s witty, smart, affectionate, and (of course) very attractive. Besides, Charles has never been one to judge someone by their physical appearance, gender or tastes; he much prefers a strong personality. And Erik has one that is filled with mischief and humour, which explains why Charles really likes him, and allows Erik to hug him. And _feel_ his skin. And leave lingering emotions behind. (Although Charles feels guilty when Hank almost catches them.)

 

And Charles knows that maybe there are feelings hatching - attaching themselves to them, between them, building these magnificent, sturdy bridges that Charles has never felt before - but Charles can’t help himself. There’s just so much about Erik that draws Charles in like a starving animal.

 

 

\---

 

Hank walks in on Erik leaning in to whisper something to Charles, his hand clutching Charles’s shoulder in a possessive way. Erik looks unrealistically large next to Charles’s naturally slight frame, but Charles seems to attract that type of man. Erik’s fingers curl in a demanding way, pressing his need as he closes the space between them. If they weren’t both seated in wooden chairs, Hank would think he was watching the beginning of the best adult film he’s ever seen.

 

Not that he’s ever watched any…

 

Hank means to keep his sounds in check, but this just _wasn’t_ what he expected would be happening out in the open like this – what with Raven around to grapple them all into submission on a daily basis.

 

“So-sorry. I was just coming to see if you’re feeling better,” Hank manages to say after a moment.

 

“I’m doing much better, thank you,” Erik replies, sounding much more calm and collected than Hank had.

 

Charles clears his throat, removing Erik’s fingers from his shirt collar. “He was just about to share some information he acquired about other mutants while in Sylar’s captivity. Through my telepathy, of course.”

 

“Right, right. That sounds a lot faster.” Hank forces a smile. “Well, there’s actually another reason I was coming in. I wanted to announce that I’d be leaving tomorrow morning. I took a job overseas to work for the CIA.”

 

Charles’s smile is blinding. Erik seems like he’s jealous of the attention Hank’s getting, or maybe the opportunity itself. Hank mentally pats himself on the back.

 

“Did you already announce this to Raven?” Charles asks, his smile wavering slightly.

 

“I did.” Hank rubs his neck nervously. “She told me if I’m not bringing her along, then I’ll have hell to pay each time I visit.” He chuckles softly. “I guess that means I’ll be needing to check into a hospital in a few weeks.”

 

Erik smirks at that. “Well, I wish you good luck working for those _normal_ people.”

 

“Thank you…I guess.” Hank’s brow creases trying to read between the lines of the statement.

 

“Shall we celebrate tonight? There’s still champagne and wine left from my parents’ vast collection.” Charles smiles fondly at his old friend.

 

It almost hurts Hank to say, but he has to. Besides, the look Erik is giving him is frightening enough to make grown men – that aren’t geniuses like Hank who’s never fought in his life - shit their pants. Metal bending powers or not, Erik is not someone you mess with.

 

“I’ll have to pass. I didn’t start packing yet, and Raven already reserved the last of my free time.”

 

“Oh, I see. Well, be sure to write while you’re away.” Charles crosses his fingers over one knee. “It’ll be dangerous in here without you around to help distribute the usual pain she supplies.”

 

Erik laughs, tapping Charles’s knee softly. “She doesn’t seem that bad.”

 

 _Just wait. You haven’t been here long_ , Hank thinks.

 

Charles laughs under his breath. Hank is going to miss the way Charles knows exactly what he’s thinking, even without having to read Hank’s mind. But they haven’t been apart in a long time; some space could do them some good. It makes the reunion better.

 

 

*-*-*

 

Dean slips on the way to the Impala. Sam rushes over and bends down to give him a hand, only to be thanked with a dirty look and a shove of hands. “Stop it, Sam.”

 

That’s the only time Dean will say his name without the added letters; when he’s angry about something.

“I was just trying--”

 

“To help, I got it.” Dean grabs the bottle slowly rolling away from them. “Because I need all the help I can get, right?”

 

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Sam says softly. He hasn’t seen Dean look this bad since their father died.

 

“I don’t care. I don’t like it.” Dean presses the bottle to his lips and slams the passenger door shut instead of climbing in. “I don’t feel like skipping out of town yet.” Then, with more grace than any drunken man should have, he flicks his phone open, sees the number calling him, and tosses it to Sam. “You deal with him. I’m not here.”

 

Sam barely has time to check who it is as Dean’s already stumbling back to the motel they just walked away from. Bobby is on the other end of the line, sounding just as worried as Sam is.

 

“What’s wrong with the idjit now?” he says, trying to keep his voice as calm as he can for Sam.

 

“He’s not acting like himself. He keeps making mistakes that he never would in the past.” Sam sighs. “I mean fortunately the jobs you got for us aren’t too hard for me to handle alone, but he always insists on tagging along.”

 

“Well, do you blame him? What if it was him going off, and you staying behind to feel sorry for yourself?” Bobby asks, sounding slightly less calm.

 

“But once we get there he zones out, and he leaves me hanging.” Sam runs his fingers through his hair, letting out another long-suffering sigh. “What should I do?”

 

“I think he needs time to process everything.” Bobby takes a sip from his glass of rum. It tastes like malt liquor and ash; he frowns and continues, “You should just take his keys away, and force him to face whatever is bothering him before he goes out and gets his head blown off.”

 

“I guess you’re right.” Sam heads to the front desk to book their room longer. “Thanks, Bobby.”

 

Bobby hangs up, feeling the exact same way Dean does; helpless.

 

\---

 

Dean is passed out on the bed closest to the door. His beer is dripping all over the carpet, and Sam wishes he would have at least finished it, instead of leaving more work for Sam. Sam slides off Dean’s shoes, putting them near the doorway, and Dean doesn’t even stir. Sam sits on the edge of the other bed, rubbing at his temple.

 

This is worse than that time he offered to bring Dean to rehab.

 

Sam can’t just sit here and watch his brother in his drunken stupor; he needs air. Sam takes the car keys, dropping a note near the nightstand on his way out.

 

\---

 

Dean hears the sound of wings, but it isn’t loud enough to shake him from his sleep. What does wake Dean, however, is the sound the bed makes when someone’s weight drops on it. Dean sits up in bed, searching under his pillow for the gun he keeps there. Except this time it’s not there like it should be; it’s on the floor next to a half-empty bottle of beer.

 

Castiel is sitting in the same spot Sam was mere minutes ago, trailing his eyes over Dean’s confused expression. “Is something wrong, Dean?”

 

“Yeah.” Dean can finally breathe again. He rubs his forehead; a serious hangover is heading his way. He needs more alcohol _, stat,_ to avoid that. “You need to learn to walk through the front door. And also, you should have brought some booze with you.”

 

“Booze? Is that something only angels can acquire?” Castiel tilts his head.

 

Dean sighs, waving a hand at the puppy-dog expression. “Never mind. What do you want? I was sleeping.”

 

Castiel stands, walking to the end of Dean’s bed. “I was told you would be my main charge from this moment on.”

 

Dean frowns, rubbing his eyes. Weren’t they already being watched over by him? “So what’s the difference with before?”

 

Castiel tries not to look Dean in the eye. “Now, I need only worry about _your_ wellbeing. Of course that does not mean I will let the others be killed if they are in danger.”

 

“What do you mean _my_ wellbeing? I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” Dean glares at the side of Castiel’s face, since he won’t look at Dean directly anymore. Castiel’s shoulders droop a bit. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

 

“I was told you needed to be taken care of because you were the weakest--”

 

“The weakest! You’re kidding me, right?” Dean snaps.

 

“But you’re also the most valuable, Dean,” Castiel finishes. “That is what they didn’t want you to know. Just how precious your existence is to humanity.”

 

Dean throws his legs over the side of the bed. This whole time he’s been feeling inadequate, useless, and most of all, weak. Even Heaven agrees he’s weak. Though, they also think he’s worth something, worthy of their divine intervention, or whatever the look Castiel is giving him could be called. But it’s because of all those amazing people—mutants, whatever—and their surreal abilities (Sam and Peter included), that he’s been feeling so unworthy of the life he’s destined to have.

 

If Sam asked if Dean meant to screw up all those times in the past when he messed up on jobs, he would have said no. The answer would have always been no, except for during the past few weeks. Dean definitely doesn’t want to be ganked on purpose, but if it happens, it happens.

 

“Dean,” Castiel says flatly. “Dean, are you listening?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, Cas.” The nickname just keeps slipping through, without a moment’s thought, and it feels so natural. Like it’s always been their thing. Like he’s always known about this weird, nerd angel. “I’m just tired.”

 

“If that is the case, I will return in a few hours,” Castiel declares with his usual gravelly voice.

 

The sound of wings flutters out faster than it arrived. Dean’s head is spinning, so he abandons the bottle he meant to finish. Sleep will have to fix him somehow.

 

*-*-*

 

Charles misses Hank, but Hank makes sure to send Charles updates as often as his work permits. One of the messages Charles receives is concerning a man Hank’s met at work. A man named Scott Summers.

 

 

_He and Hank were working on some new devices for the CIA when Scott’s head started to hurt. Hank kept asking him what was wrong, and if he needed to be brought somewhere, but Scott insisted it was just a migraine and he would be fine in the morning._

_He wasn’t._

_Instead, to Hank’s great dismay, Scott’s headache returned stronger than ever, and—if Hank hadn’t witnessed it, he wouldn’t believe it either—a dangerous, wide-ranged laser beam began to shoot straight out of Scott’s eyes. It destroyed most of the laboratory. But Hank, not wanting his new friend to suffer due to his new monstrous ability, helped Scott escape, and told him where he could go for help._

 

 _“_ That’s where you come in, Charles” is the last line of Hank’s message.

 

There’s a knock at Charles’s front door before he even has time to process what he just read.

\---

Scott’s power is like a beacon of red light. It’s like a laser turned on to full capacity. It’s like destruction infiltrated into Scott’s body, forcing him to become a weapon that he doesn’t want to be. That he should never be.

 

Charles understands how it feels to be helpless under the burden of your own powers.

 

Charles had so much difficulty trying to control his telepathy when he first discovered it as well. He couldn’t stop leaking into people’s minds, but this – this surge of power, this destruction that’s so raw, so painfully obvious, so hard to hide or avoid – Scott must have  struggled a lot while trying to come to terms with this new ability.

 

It must have been hard for him to accept that, suddenly, he can’t control his body anymore. And he’s become something that people fear. Even though he’s, evidently, the same person deep down inside. Luckily, Hank was the one to find him; who knew him beforehand, and led him to Charles, because that’s exactly where he needs to be now.

 

Although he can’t really look around and enjoy the mansion, Charles finds way to help Scott adapt. Because he deserves to be aided through this new transition period; Charles wants only the best for everyone, and Scott is more than worthy of that attention.

 

\---

 

Scott is polite, intelligent, young, and incredibly considerate of others. Charles takes a liking to the younger man almost instantly, using his abilities to full capacity just to keep Scott from destroying the mansion upon his arrival.

 

Unfortunately, Hank isn’t around to find some temporary solution, so Scott spends most of his time with his eyes shut. Charles can only keep it under control for so long before he needs to rest, and let his telepathy regenerate.

 

Erik doesn’t like how much time Charles is spending with Scott, but he knows he shouldn’t be worrying about Charles’s fidelity; he’s just a caring man. All the same, Erik can’t help but feel out of place when they spend entire days discussing this professor, that experiment, and other things Erik’s never been interested in.

 

So, instead of confronting Charles like Erik knows he should, he packs a suitcase, and leaves the mansion in search of his mother’s killer. On the way out, Erik can’t remember if he left a note or not. It’s not like Charles is even aware of his surroundings now that he has a new pet project to work on.

 

\---

 

As soon as Erik leaves the mansion, he can already concentrate on tracking down the mass murderer responsible for his mother’s death. He sees now the progress he’s made due to Charles’s training. Too bad he’s too far away to thank Charles properly.

 

Erik sifts through paper clippings. Shaw. The man’s name is Shaw, and he doesn’t seem to have aged even a day to Erik’s great pleasure. It means he can thoroughly enjoy beating the living daylights out of that murdering, heartless abomination.

 

He jumps aboard Shaw’s ship without much of a hassle. The guards lie unconscious on the floor as he changes into something more suitable for a yacht party. Thankfully, Charles is a very generous man and brought Erik shopping a few times before he left.

 

Erik arrives on deck, wondering where the guests are.

 

There had been guests, he knows. He heard them. But now, just a few minutes later, it’s like walking onto a ghost ship. Drinks are scattered across the wooden boards, scarves and pearl necklaces dropped about carelessly. If he didn’t know better, he’d think someone else beat him to the punch.

 

“Who are you? What do you want with me?”

 

Erik knows the voice well, couldn’t forget it even if it meant bringing his dead mother back to life. It’s Shaw’s voice, and he’s begging for mercy, pleading for his life. It’s so very unlike the mass murderer to sound so weak.

 

“I have my reasons. You should understand that.”

 

Another voice he’s come to know well enough. Erik cringes; it’s Sylar.

 

Erik rushes over to where their voices are, only to see Sylar delivering the final blow—if it can be called that—to Shaw, and ending his life. There’s a deep gash across Shaw’s forehead, and blood pushes out like water through an old barrage. There’s so much of it everywhere.

 

Sylar has taken Erik’s only goal in life away from him. Someone has to take Shaw’s place.


	8. What Time Has Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Couples blossom, and others wither.

**What Time Has Done**

 

Peter slid his fingers through Sylar’s hair, helping Sylar with his breathing after another of his nightmares. He never thought they’d be this close, this intimate, and in such a respectably normal relationship. He promised he would be who Peter wanted him to be if Peter just stayed by his side and kept him grounded.

 

Peter told Sylar that it wasn’t about what he wanted, but about Sylar trying to be good. And of course Peter didn’t want to see the angel take a life if he didn’t need to.

 

“Why did you become like this?” Peter wrapped an arm tighter around him. “Did something happen when you were young?”

 

\---

 

_Sylar remembered the way it felt to meet someone just like him. They were unsuspecting enough, and so damn oblivious about their own strength. His mind had drifted into curious thoughts at first, but then, as he went deeper into his own mind. He wanted to know what was wrong with them. Why didn’t they see their potential?_

_He looked at them with false sympathy; with what he thought was consideration. As they were all broken items just dying to be fixed by steady, capable hands, Sylar convinced himself he had to open up their heads. The blood disgusted him, but he continued. His craving for knowledge, for power, was far too strong to be discouraged by something as natural as the crimson liquid oozing out. They were, to him, like a science project that was never completed. And a perfectionist like Sylar couldn’t stand to see something half-done._

_That should have been a hint that Sylar was the broken one, and not the other way around._

 

 

_His mother was the only person he’d ever cared for; no one else understood him. He was a bit of a loner, bit of an oddball, and no one wanted to waste time getting to know the person inside of Sylar. Well, he was still Gabriel Gray at that point._

_When he tried to tell her that he’d found his calling; that he’d finally found a solution that made him feel like something good, something powerful – like he couldn’t be stepped on anymore; that he couldn’t be controlled by society and their norms – she took it as something awful._

_He tried to explain, he tried to show her, but she was scared. And that made him angry, which made him lose control of it because it was all so new to him. She wanted to stop him, and he wanted to prevent her from getting closer before she was injured since he was struggling against this new part of himself._

_And when she approached, picking up the scissors – before he could take them away from her, save her, and tell her he was still the same boy, and he still loved her more than anything – she was shoving forward. Except, something in Sylar’s powers went into instinctual terrain, protector-mode, forcing him to fight back against his only family._

_His own flesh and blood._

_The scissors were pointed into her stomach, instead of into Sylar – where they surely belonged. He couldn’t believe that the one person he would have ever needed in his life was gone, and it was because of him. Because of the thing that he thought was a gift that was definitely more of a curse._

_How could be whole again if he could never see her?_

_But, there was no one to tell him right from wrong once she was gone. So, he just did whatever he needed to feel like he could survive another day. That road wasn’t a fulfilling one, but at least he met Peter because of it._

 

_If the one thing linking you to your humanity suddenly disappeared, what would you become?_

 

“I’m so sorry, Sylar.” Peter stroked Sylar’s hair softly, kissing the top of his head. “But, now that I’m here with you, can you change?”

 

“I can,” Sylar had said, holding Peter’s hand.

 

“I want to believe you, but I’m afraid,” Peter whispered grudgingly. “If you step over the line, just once, it’s over for you.”

 

“Peter, I won’t let that happen.” He turned to face him, to hold Peter closer. “I won’t leave you, I promise.”

 

“I hope so.” Peter nuzzled in closer. “I’ve had my heart broken before.”

 

*-*-*

 

Where was Castiel? Didn’t he say if Sylar killed anyone, mutant or human alike, that would be the end of his godforsaken life?

 

Erik holds back the tears, clenches his teeth, and lets the anger burst out of him all at once. His hands are wrapped around Sylar’s collar before either man can process what’s even going on. In the next instance, bone meets bone in a symphony of violent attacks, and Erik can’t stop no matter how much he wants to.

Everything he’s been holding in up until now, everything he was going to let rain down on Shaw like a thunderstorm, is left with no more outlet. His fists decide Sylar is the next best choice for having stolen Erik’s prey.

 

“Fuck you.” Erik’s knuckles crash against jawbones, cheekbones, bruising flesh, more flesh, and slipping in the blood, until Erik has to stop from his hands turning red. “You’re going to pay for everything!”

 

Castiel appears just as Erik is ripping off a metal railing with a flick of his wrist, preparing to impale Sylar with.

 

“Stop, Erik,” Castiel says firmly. “That’s enough.”

 

Erik snaps out of the violent rampage he was trapped in, dropping the railing and Sylar at the same time. “I - I didn’t mean for this.” Erik holds his head with a bloodied hand. “I need to see Charles.” He disappears through a storage room, and promises himself that he will never again hurt one of his kind.

 

Castiel walks toward Sylar, pressing two digits to his forehead, instantly healing him. “This isn’t for you.”

 

Sylar nods slowly, holding his jaw, expecting there to be pain, but glad when there isn’t any. “It’s because of Peter, right?”

 

“Yes,” Castiel says without inflection. “He would not want to help us in the future if something were to happen to you.” He puts his hand out to help Sylar stand. “I will take you to see him now.”

\---

 

There’s a sickness among humanity and it’s called judgement. People fuel each other’s hatred by judging one another from the way they look, by the way they sound, by the way they dress, by the way they eat, by _what_ they eat, by what they say…Nothing is sacred for them anymore.

 

Everyone is judged; put into categories, either good or bad, or useless, or weird. Or rejected. And Erik knows this is a defining factor, a base characteristic, of people. _Humans._ Mutants wouldn’t be the terrified creatures that they are otherwise. They wouldn’t be hiding, trying to blend in, and hunted. They wouldn’t try to be something they’re not for the sake of survival.

 

It would be fair if mutants were the ones to rule and humans were the outcasts – the minority. Then, it would make sense. Erik doesn’t understand how the majority, the weak – so frail, so scared – is controlling the stronger, better race. They shouldn’t be.

 

Not only that, but they kill and fight _one another_ ; they pick sides because they’re naïve and so terrified of everything the world has to offer. And, of course, there are exceptions - the ones Charles meets that he uses to try to convince mutants that there’s a good side to humanity - but mostly they’re flawed and violent.

 

It’s like an apple with a worm hidden in the core of it; it looks fine on the outside, and there are still probably some parts that are edible, but deep down it’s rotten. It’s destroyed. It’s disgusting. It’s not worth saving, not worth eating, not worth fighting for.

 

Erik is suddenly very aware of this fact; he gets the message loud and clear.

 

If there were no humans, there would be no Shaw, and Erik’s mother would still be alive. If there were no humans, there’d be no Sylar; he would just be Gabriel Gray. If there were no humans, there would be no Erik Lehnsherr; there’d just be Erik – the boy who is in love in Charles. The _man_ who is _still_ going to love Charles regardless of what he suffered.

 

And perhaps he should thank humans for leading him to Charles because now he knows what he must accomplish in life, and he has a partner to do it with.

 

\---

 

On his way back to the mansion, Erik is further consumed by his thoughts.

 

The rage is overwhelming, passing through his veins like molten lava. Erik starts to think, re-think, overthink everything he knew, all that happened, what will surely come to pass. He knows the beginning - the seed of hate which sprouts in otherwise good mutants - is always due to _one_ terrible encounter with a human.

 

Shaw was evil because his boss was even worse. Sylar is evil because he was rejected, just as Erik was. He can tell just from looking at Sylar that they’re very similar to each other. They could become the same one day if Erik isn’t careful.

 

All that is bad in the world, all that is corrupt and frightening, comes from humans - not mutants.

 

Erik smiles at his decision; it feels right. Now that he’s found the source of their collective misery, he knows where to concentrate all of his pent-up anger.

 

\---

 

Charles hurries to open the door, squeezing the life out of Erik when he steps inside the mansion. “Where have you been, Erik? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for days.”

 

“I needed some time to be alone and understand everything.” Erik smiles, leans in, taking a deep breath of the cologne he’s missed so much.

 

Charles takes Erik’s hands, instantly noticing the bruises on his knuckles. “Oh no, you didn’t...” He looks up at Erik with sadness and disappointment. “Who was it?”

 

“No one,” Erik lies. “It was just some hooligan trying to get in my way.”

 

“Erik, I don’t usually have to take the truth from you by force,” he replies softly. “Don’t make me have to.”

 

“It was Sylar.” He lets go of Charles’s hand, stalking further inside the room. “I was searching for my mother’s killer. And he was there.”

 

“Did you…” Charles starts.

 

“I didn’t,” Erik says flatly. “I won’t. Don’t look at me like _that_.”

 

“What happened? You seem different,” says Charles, a hint of worry in his voice.

 

“I _am_ different, Charles. Very,” Erik tells him seriously. “I decided to never hurt one of our kind again. No matter how much they may deserve it.”

 

“Even Sylar?” Charles asks cautiously.

 

Erik snorts, leaning against the staircase. “Sylar is the way he is thanks to his family, his lack of friends, society. All those so-called normal people. Humans.” He sighs. “Them, on the other hand, I won’t think twice about giving a taste of what I’m capable of.”

 

“Are you seriously considering hurting people with no way to defend themselves?” Charles’s eyes could not get any wider. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

 

Erik grabs Charles’s hand, lifting it to his mouth. “We need to be able to survive, too, Charles. You can’t possibly think they won’t try to exterminate our kind eventually. Don’t be naïve.” He kisses the fingers that have given him such happiness, such hope for their future. “Please, I need you by my side. We need to find others out there; make them understand.”

 

Charles pulls away, staring up at Erik with his mouth slightly open. “This is ridiculous, Erik. You can’t truly expect me to hunt people who are innocent.”

 

“Please,” Erik pleads, eyes tearing up. “I _need_ you.”

 

“I - I just can’t do what you want.” Charles holds back the tears ready to fall. “It’s not in my nature, not part of my morals. I can’t do what you’re asking. I know humans; I have human friends. I can’t hurt them because of a select few.”

 

Erik stares at Charles, still hopeful that he’ll change his mind, wishing he’ll come around soon. But instead, Charles wipes the tears from his eyes and points to the door. “I think you should leave.”

 

Erik nods stiffly, turning away from the look of disappointment on Charles’s face. Erik wants to hold Charles and convince him that they can still be together despite their opposing views, but he knows it would be impossible. Charles would never accept anyone being hurt.

 

So, after grabbing a few of his possessions, Erik leaves.


	9. Brothers Fully Armed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lines are being drawn; lines have been drawn in the past as well.

“Hey Sammy,” Dean says with his mouth full of bagel. “Listen to this: ‘four brutal attacks in the Canadian wilderness.’ Says they had some scrapes and bruises, but nothing else. Whatever it was didn’t even eat any limbs.”

 

“How are you eating and talking about missing limbs at the same time? Never mind.” Sam blows his bangs out of his eyes. “Guess we’re going across the border for once?”

 

“I think we’ll need Bobby’s help to pull this one off.” Dean’s teeth dig into more bagel. “This is delicious.”

 

Sam rolls his eyes. “I’ll call Bobby.”

 

\---

 

Before long, they’re on Canadian soil, unamused by how much snow there is up in the great, white north. Sam packed enough sweaters for a ski trip to Antarctica, but Dean isn’t half as prepared. He’s shivering with his teeth clattering, his hands turning blue against the steering wheel.

 

“There better be some hot chicks in this ice box.” Dean blows out powdery air. Of _course_ the heater chose this time to break down.

 

Sam keeps his eyes on the map and the road, making sure they don’t get lost in a country they’ve never been to. After many complaints and confusing roads, they finally find a cabin in the woods to settle down in.

 

Dean is in the middle of sharpening his fifth knife when they hear not one, but two growls coming from just outside their cabin. “Gimme one of your sweaters, Sammy.”

 

Sam sighs, tossing him one that’s a bit smaller. “I’ll go check first.”

 

\---

 

The snow crunches under Sam’s boots, making it hard for him to sneak up on the thing. His gun is drawn and pointed in front of him, finger on the trigger and ready to shoot a few rounds into whatever the creature turns out to be.

 

The same crunching sound that Sam’s making comes from behind him, and he knows it’s Dean following from not too far behind. He doesn’t bother looking back to make sure he’s right.

 

But when a branch cracks further pass them, they both turn in sync. Sam shivers, not because of the cold, when he looks over at Dean. “Did you hear that?”

 

“No shit, Sherlock.” Dean cocks his gun. “And why am I closer to the sound than you are? I could have _sworn_ you were in front for once.”

 

Dean can’t react in time to whatever is flying towards them, but Sam yanks Dean back by the fabric of his sweater at the last second.

 

One big, hairy silhouette appears, and then another. They land in a heap of limbs and claws in the snow not far from where Sam and Dean are standing. The second beast seems to be more vicious than the first, judging by how much blood is on the first one’s body.

 

Were there supposed to be two creatures attacking people out here?

 

Dean points his gun at the one with blood dripping from his claws. Then he realizes they’re actually fingers, not paws. He’s not a creature at all. Dean is standing there, out in the open, trying to figure out what these things are when Sam pulls Dean back, and ducks behind a tree.

 

*-*-*

 

Charles pulls off Cerebro, trying to catch his breath. Scott pats him on the back softly.

 

“His name is Logan,” explains Charles after a few more deep breaths. “It seems as though he’s being attacked by another mutant.”

 

“We have to go save him then, right?” Scott answers, grabbing their jackets.

 

“You are indeed right.” Charles takes his jacket from Scott’s grip. “I just hope we can make it in time with Hank’s aircraft.”

 

*-*-*

 

“I don’t think we can face that guy alone,” Sam whispers. “It’s another mutant. And from the looks of it, he’s a pretty strong one.”

 

Dean scoffs. “Are you saying bullets don’t kill you guys? I’ll believe it when I try it.”

 

“No, wait!” Sam protests, but Dean is already aiming at the one that looks thirsty for blood.

 

A plane’s engine whirs from above them, throwing snow in all directions, temporarily distracting the stronger one from killing his prey. Sam grabs for Dean again, moving them both away from the area being used as a makeshift landing strip. It looks like it’s going to be a tight squeeze for Charles.

 

Charles rushes out, waving quickly at the two he recognizes, spotting the men at war further away.

 

“I can’t tell which one is Logan,” Charles admits to Scott.

 

“Maybe he’s the one who needs a trim. Actually, they both do,” Scott says to lighten the mood.

 

“What do you want, bub? I have my hands full right now,” says the one lying on the ground with a bleeding top lip. Except, it’s stopped bleeding, and the blood is drying up faster than humanly possible.

 

“The one who looked like he was losing is actually winning?” Dean scratches his head. “Now I’ve seen everything.” Sam shushes him, reminding Dean to keep his gun pointed at the one with hair longer than Fabio.

 

Charles puts his hands up to show he means no harm. “I’ve come here to help you, Logan.”

 

“Is that so? Well, I’ll let you know if I still need help once I’m done kicking his ass,” he says defiantly.

 

Metal blades slide out through Logan’s knuckles, and the man in front of him roars angrily, grabbing onto Logan’s neck before he can attack. His grip tightens, Logan losing the strength to slash up the other man like he had hoped to. Noticing this, Scott removes the glasses covering his eyes, and a red beam goes straight through the violent man’s chest. He collapses to the ground, falling atop Logan.

 

Sam rushes over to help Logan up, but Dean already has an idea what the outcome of that is going to be. Logan reminds Dean of…someone.

 

The hand Sam offers is swatted away, and Sam is pushed to the ground roughly.

 

“I don’t need help from a kid with floppy hair,” Logan declares. “Go back to your father over there.”

 

“Father?!” Dean shouts incredulously. “Sammy, let’s get out of here before his douchebag-energy rubs off on us.” Dean turns and doesn’t acknowledge the face next to Charles that he doesn’t know. “Later.”

 

_Are you all right, Logan? Though, you do seem altogether capable of caring for yourself._

“How did you do that?” Logan snaps. “Get out of my head!”

 

“My apologies. I’m professor Charles Xavier, and I’m like you.” He smiles. “Now, who is that man lying unconscious with a wound in his chest?”

 

“That’s my brother, Victor.” Logan withdraws his claws. “I need a cigar.”

 

“I can buy you plenty if you just accompany me back to the mansion, where you’ll find other mutants like yourself.” Charles points at Scott lovingly. “This is Scott Summers, the man responsible for that devastating hole.”

 

“I didn’t need your help, pal,” Logan grumbles. “I do want those cigars, though.”

 

“Shall we be off then?” Charles looks back at Victor. “Maybe we should bring him along.”

 

“He’s probably healed by now. I think we better get out of here before he rips you two a new one.” Logan smoothes his hair back, and shoves his hands in his jean pockets, prowling towards the plane.

 

*-*-*

 

Erik is too late to convince Logan to join his side when he arrives, but there’s a man with a breathtaking amount of anger and a dislike for authority who will do just the trick.

 

“What’s your name?” Erik asks quietly – just in case Charles is still around. Erik gives him a hand in standing. “You’re quite an interesting creature.”

 

“My name used to be Victor, but I prefer Sabretooth,” he growls in reply.

 

Erik likes the sound of it. “I think we’ll get along just fine, Sabretooth. Call me Magneto. You can ask me one day if you want to know why.”

 

*-*-*

James Howlett was always built like a brick house. As a child he was teased for it, as a teenager he was respected for it, but in his household it was just the norm. His parents split up, and suddenly there was another brick-house-man in the picture.

 

His name was Victor Creed and he was James’s half-brother.

 

Victor wasn’t as charming as his older brother; couldn’t quite get along with anyone either. He looked up to James for that. And because of that admiration, he never asked why James would purposely lose fights.

 

One day, agents dressed in fancy suits stopped by their home. Their parents were out at the time, but the agents insisted on coming in for a visit. James let them in, unaware of their plan to capture both brothers, and dragging them off to a secluded laboratory. James didn’t fight back because they threatened to hurt their parents if he did. Victor thought they could just protect their parents when the time came, but James refused to risk it.

 

That was the first time Victor didn’t agree with his big brother.

 

\---

 

The days at the lab seemed endless. Testing on their abilities began when the sun rose, and finished past sunset. James knew his brother Victor couldn’t take much more, and James couldn’t stand to watch his brother suffer like that either. He promised his parents he’d protect Victor.

 

When the soldiers thought the brothers were broken and obedient, the amount of guards they used lessened. At that moment, James took his chance, and attacked them with all he had. Victor couldn’t believe what was happening, but he joined in immediately. The men were no match for the superhuman duo, and they managed to escape successfully.

 

They returned to their parents, but things started to fall apart. The household wasn’t as warm and comforting as it once was because of to the time they had spent apart. Things were different now. James decided to join the army, feeling that was the only place left where his talents could be used effectively and respectably. But Victor didn’t understand why James would join the people who had tortured them for months.

 

\---

 

When James returned, Victor seemed distant and cold, and just not the same anymore. But he greeted James with the same warm hug he always used to.

 

“How’ve you been, Vic?” he asked fondly.

 

“I was waiting for you to come back, James.” He pulled his brother in another hug. Something cold pressed against Victor’s skin. “What’s this? Logan?”

 

“Yeah.” James held it up, admiring it. “They called me that back there. I think I’ll stick to it.”

 

Victor didn’t understand why a name given to James by some nobodies in the army was better than the one his parents gave him. But for a while, Victor hadn’t been understanding his brother’s actions.

 

When he thought things couldn’t get much weirder, James – Logan – brought home a young lady to meet them all. She was pretty, of course, but she was weak, frail. She couldn’t possibly protect Logan if the government came back to get him. She would probably even give him up without a fight.

 

“We’re getting married,” Logan announced happily.

 

Victor didn’t agree with his decision; didn’t like that woman. Hell, he was even starting to dislike his own brother. Something had to be done.

 

“Why would you marry her?” Victor pulled his brother aside, shooting her an icy glance.

 

“Because I love her, Vic,” he chuckled. “Isn’t it obvious?”

 

Nothing was obvious anymore. Nothing Logan did made any sense in Victor’s mind.

 

“But she can’t protect you,” Victor argued. “I can, though.”

 

“I don’t want to be protected.” Logan grabbed his brother’s shoulder gently. “I want to live a normal life for once.”

 

A normal life? How could anyone as smart, strong, and amazing as Logan want to be normal? And why would he want to live a normal life with someone like her?

 

Something definitely had to be done.

 

\---

 

They wed not long after. Victor attended the ceremony for his brother, but didn’t speak to the bride. When Logan excused himself and went to the bathroom, Victor left the party. After a few months of his brother’s bliss, Victor decided enough was enough.

 

He waited for Logan to leave for work, and Victor paid the woman of his brother’s dreams a visit. One she would not soon forget.

 

When Logan returned, his wife was sliced from head to toe, and the culprit was nowhere to be found. But he knew who did it, and the pain of it would haunt him for the rest of his life.


	10. Life Goes On

“What do you mean he needs your help?” Dean scoffs. “That guy seems perfectly capable of handling Logan all on his own.”

 

“It’s not about Logan,” Sam explains, frustrated. “He needs help with research. It’s about a machine he uses called Cerebro. I won’t be gone long.”

 

“Whatever.” Dean throws his hands in the air. “What am I supposed to do in the meantime? Go hunting alone, I guess, right?”

 

“If you feel up to it.” Sam throws some clothes in a duffel bag. “Maybe Castiel can be your back-up.”

 

Dean can’t tell if Sam is joking or not, so he decides he must be. “I’ll just drink myself to death. How does that sound?”

 

“Fine, as long as you don’t die before I get back.” Sam smiles cheekily. “Seriously Dean, this isn’t a big deal.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean gestures to Sam’s hair. “You and that floppy mess take care.”

 

\---

 

Sam’s barely gone for an hour when Castiel drops in.

 

“I don’t think he was serious about the whole back-up thing, Cas.” Dean sips at his beer, flicking through channels.

 

“I’m here to watch over you, Dean.” Castiel takes a seat next to Dean, not bothering to ask for permission. “Is this what they call television?”

 

“Who’s _they_? Whatever, yes, this is TV. And as you can see, I’m not in danger.” He takes another swig of beer.

 

“This is simply a precautionary measure.” Castiel takes the remote from Dean’s hand, aiming it at the television with the precision of a brain surgeon. “This is fascinating,” he mutters to himself.

 

Dean rolls his eyes. If he has to share his room with a remote-hogging angel, they might as well have some fun.

 

“Try this.” Dean hands Castiel his beer. “It doesn’t taste so great, but the effects are just right.”

 

“I don’t believe--”

 

“Just take it,” Dean cuts in.

 

Castiel’s expression doesn’t change, but Dean can still tell that Castiel doesn’t like the taste from how quickly he hands it back. Dean pushes it back at him. “Once you finish that, we’re moving on to harder stuff. So drink up fast. It gets better.”

 

\---

 

Dean has 6 beers, half a bottle of vodka and three glasses of rum swimming through his body. He tried to keep up with the Angel of the Lord next to him, but had to stop halfway.

 

Castiel, the kickass drinker, has 24 beers, 2 bottles of vodka, 1 bottle of whisky, half a bottle of rum and a couple of Jell-O shots coursing through his veins, and still he’s able to stand on his own. And even keeps Dean from falling over a couple of times.

 

They leave the bar walking in a fairly straight line. But as they reach the Impala, Dean decides it’s probably not a good idea to drive if he can’t even see his own fingers in front of his face.

 

“Let’s go to a titty bar,” Dean announces, winking at Castiel in a playful manner. “You like breasts right?”

 

“Breasts? You mean the part of the female anatomy used for feeding young?” Castiel mumbles, holding Dean steady.

 

“Yes, breasts.” Dean raises a brow coyly. “I’m sure you wanna see them up close and personal, Cas.”

 

“Not particular--”

 

Dean clasps Castiel’s shoulder, squeezing against the muscles. “You do!”

 

Then they’re walking towards the sketchiest, dirtiest, darkest strip joint Dean has ever seen, and he feels like he’s going to enjoy the rest of the night very much.

 

\---

 

They get kicked out because Castiel thinks he needs a closer look, and by look, he means _touch_. Dean forgot to tell Castiel that a big no-no for clubs like this is for the patrons to get handsy with the workers. He tells him now, though, for future reference.

 

“That’s a no-no, Cas.” Dean chuckles. He likes the feeling of being in charge of an all-powerful angel. “You can’t go groping strangers either.”

 

“So it is acceptable for me to touch people I know then?” Castiel asks innocently. He sounds like he has someone in mind. “Such as you, Dean?”

 

“I knew you – wait – _what_?” Dean swallows, putting his hand out between them. “I’m not a chick. You can’t grope me, dude.”

 

“I didn’t say I would violate you with my hands,” Castiel explains, sounding slightly insulted. “I said touch.”

 

“Oh.” Dean kicks himself for sounding disappointed. “Yeah, sure then. Just don’t make a habit out of it.”

 

Castiel reaches out and places either hand on Dean’s chest. Castiel immediately sighs. “It’s not the same. Those women had curvature that seemed interesting.”

 

“Duh, Cas. I’m a guy.” Dean pushes the probing hands away. “I have junk, not tits.”

 

Castiel’s innocent eyes wander down, wondering what Dean’s genitals might look like, and what his vessel’s look like as well.

 

“Hey, hey!” Dean backs away. “Don’t even try to touch me there. That’s off-limits to your perverted thoughts.”

 

Castiel swallows, looking elsewhere. “I’ll bring you back to the motel, then.”

 

“Then?” He pushes Castiel away. “I’m not going back yet.”

 

“What would you like to do, Dean?” He blinks, his arms crossed.

 

 _This isn’t fun. He’s gone back to protector Cas._ “I want to--” Dean spots a sign pointing downward. “Lake! Let’s go swimming.”

 

“Swimming?” Castiel frowns, but his arms uncross. “I suppose we could.”

 

“Naked!” Even Dean doesn’t know where it came from, but it’s too late to take it back now. “It’s called skinny dipping by the way, Cas. It’s a real thing.”

 

“I was under the impression you made it up,” he says in a grave tone of voice.

 

Dean shakes his head. “Whatever. Follow me or go back up to those goody two shoes in Heaven. Your choice.”

 

\---

 

Dean really didn’t think this through. It’s freezing, it’s dark, and he’s pretty sure what he’s feeling pressed against him isn’t Castiel (again).

 

“This is--” Dean squeals. “What the hell _is_ that?!”

 

Castiel looks down, but gets distracted by just the body parts he was curious about earlier.

 

“Cas! Stop looking at my junk,” Dean snaps. “There’s something sticky on my leg.”

 

Castiel reaches in the water, and pulls off a long, black creature. “I believe you call this a leech.”

 

“That’s it.” Dean starts swimming to shore. “Playtime is over.”

 

Castiel teleports on the side of the water where they discarded their clothes, only to realize their clothes are more than discarded: they’re gone.

 

“Dean,” Castiel says in a remarkably gentle way.

 

“Yeah?” Dean climbs out of the water, covering his parts from view. Castiel keeps looking at them in the same way Dean looks at pie. It’s seriously messed up.

 

“I seem to have lost our clothing.” Castiel peers around the darkness, continuing to look for the missing items.

 

“That’s the only thing I told you not to do!” Dean growls out, dragging a hand down the side of his face. “Okay, just beam us back to the motel.”

 

“I thought that method of transportation made you ill,” Castiel says quietly.

 

“It does, but I can’t walk past the motel clerk in my birthday suit. They’ll call the police,” Dean grinds out.

 

“All right.” Castiel presses two fingers to Dean’s forehead, and they pop back in the room where they started.

 

“I’m never bringing you drinking again.” Dean disappears into the bathroom with a bag of clothing.

 

There’s a grumble followed by an exasperated sound, so Castiel thinks Dean is in trouble, and appears behind the door. Unfortunately, Dean is still very much naked, and now he’s angry to boot. He grabs Castiel’s collar  ( _collar_? already? another ugly beige coat?) and bares his teeth.

 

“When did you spill tequila in my bag, Cas?”

 

Castiel looks at the wall, at the mirror, at anything but Dean’s face. “I didn’t realize that was your bag. I thought it was a waste basket from the state of it.”

 

“Waste basket? Waste basket!?” Dean shoves Castiel hard enough to bruise, but Castiel doesn’t even flinch. He’s probably used to much stronger men.

 

“Give me some of your clothes now,” Dean orders. “I’m not going to do laundry in the middle of the night.”

 

Castiel nods, taking off his coat and jacket, handing them to Dean without a fuss. “I suppose you need clothes for your lower half as well.”

 

“You _think_?” quips Dean.

 

“Would you like my pants or the underwear?”

 

Dean’s mind suddenly recalls just how bulging Castiel’s underwear was before he slipped out of it. Would he be able to sit next to an angel with baby blue eyes, and briefs so tight he looks like an underwear model, without trying something? _No_.

 

“I’ll take one of Sam’s pairs of shorts.”

 

Castiel nods. Dean waits. Castiel blinks, his lips parting slowly. Dean waits some more.

 

“You have inhuman strength and you’re blocking the door,” Dean finally says.

 

“Oh, yes.” Castiel opens the door and moves aside. “I apologize.”

 

Note to self: do not drink around angels, and definitely do not let them join you.

 

*-*-*

 

Charles’s brow furrows when there’s a knock at his front door late one evening. He isn’t expecting company, but it’s possible another mutant has been referred to him and is looking for sanctuary.

 

He answers the door, startled to see those familiar green eyes staring back at him lovingly. “Hello, Charles.” Erik lets himself in, pushing the door open with a flick of two fingers. “I see you’re doing well.”

 

“Erik.” Charles voice cracks between the syllables. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Didn’t you miss me?” Erik asks softly. He shuts the door behind him.

 

Charles steps back to give him some room to come in. “Why?”

 

He wishes the eavesdropping trio weren’t upstairs listening in on their private conversation, but it can’t be helped. Raven is coming down the hall slowly as well. She stops short when she notices Erik, leaning against the doorjamb of the kitchen, watching the conversation.

 

“I missed you.” Erik leans in, trying to kiss Charles. Charles turns his head, crossing his arms.

 

Charles shakes his head, brow creased. “That doesn’t change the fact that we no longer see eye to eye.”

 

“None of that should matter,” Erik answers abruptly. “It shouldn’t matter if you’re in Heaven and I’m in Hell if we love each other.”

 

Charles watches Erik silently, not speaking a word, not reading his mind to see if it’s true.

 

Erik continues. “Do you love me? Did you _ever_ love me?”

 

Charles sighs. “Of course I did, Erik, and I still do. But things have changed.”

 

“Nothing’s changed. I still love you, too. The rest is just extra.” Erik drops to his knees, holding one of Charles’s hands. “Can’t we be together? I can’t get over you, Charles.”

 

“The _extra_ is what tends to pull people apart.” Charles pets Erik’s hair gently, affection crawling around his insides, making him feel what he hasn’t in a long time. “My gift is made to help them understand, not to terrorize them .We can’t be together anymore.”

 

“Please!” Erik shouts desperately, voice raw with hurt. “I _need_ you. Don’t do this to me. You’re the only one who matters to me, Charles.”

 

Charles bends down, kissing Erik. His lips shaking as he remembers all the ways he’s missed being with Erik. He delves in; enjoys the taste, the texture, without the prejudice of his current feelings ruining it.

 

“You’ll find someone else,” Charles murmurs in Erik’s ear as he moves to stand up. “Someone who can follow you to the depths of the Earth.”

 

“I would have followed you everywhere Charles,” Erik growls under his breath. “ _Anywhere_.”

 

“I’m aware of that, dear friend. I know better than anyone else how loyal and kind you can be. And that’s precisely why I can’t go along with this destruction you ask of me. I could never agree to hurt people simply because I’ve been hurt, Erik.”

 

Erik stands, grabbing Charles by the shoulders. “No! You were meant to follow me wherever I needed you. You are part of me. You’re the half that keeps me sane, and without you – you have no idea what I’m capable of, Charles.”

 

“I am, in fact, very aware of your incredible ability,” Charles replies softly, closing his eyes when Erik squeezes a bit too tightly. “But this isn’t why I fell in love with you. I loved the gentle man I once saw. The one who would spend his last cent on candles for his mother, or flowers for her funeral.”

 

“Don’t you dare try to make me feel guilty! Those people are worthless. And if you won’t help me destroy them, then you’re no better!” Erik spits furiously.

 

The bannisters of the stairs shake, the candleholders tremble, the doorknobs squeak as they unscrew. Charles hears Raven suck in a breath, and Charles knows the three men upstairs are one moment away from charging Erik to save him. Charles must get him out before any of them get hurt.

 

“Erik, enough! We’ve chosen our paths already. Leave now. I don’t want to have to restrain with the use of my powers.”

 

“Trust me, Charles, you’ll never have the chance again. Goodbye, _dear_ _friend_.”

 

\---

 

Barely a minute later, Raven stomps out of the kitchen, glaring at Charles. “How could you just let him go like that? After what he just said.”

 

Charles pushes his hair out of his eyes, trying to hide his devastation over this. “It doesn’t concern you, Raven.”

 

“No, because it concerns all mutants in the world,” she snaps. “You two could have been the perfect combination to bring us all together, to unite us once and for all. You could have made us finally feel safe and equal to the ones mistreating us.”

 

“Raven--”

 

“If you’re not going to fight back, fight with Erik, then I will.”

 

She throws the door open, rushing after him. _“Erik, wait for me!”_

 

Charles can do little more than stare as his precious sister leaves his side to be with the one man he has ever loved. The only person he will have to face many more times in the future despite their differences of opinion.

 

“Aren’t you going to bring her back?” Sam says as he comes down the stairs, sounding very concerned. “Erik is going to introduce her to a dangerous world.”

 

“It’s her choice,” replies Charles calmly. “She’s her own person now. I knew it would happen one day. Raven has always been a freer bird than I”

 

\---

 

 “Is it always so dramatic around the professor?” Logan snorts, lighting his cigar.

 

“There’s no smoking in the mansion, Logan.” Scott reaches out to grab the cigar, but Logan dodges away. “And no, this is the first time that’s happened.”

 

“And probably not the last,” Logan mutters under his breath.

 

“What?” Scott reaches for it, misses again, but doesn’t give up. “Logan you’re going to blow us up. Sam and Charles are working on something downstairs that’s highly flammable.”

 

“Ooh, _fire_. I’m so scared. Too bad you can’t heal, huh Scotty?” He takes a long drag of the Cuban-made stick. “Now wouldn’t that be a shame?”

 

Scott lowers the edge of his glasses, catching the cigar at just the right angle. It flies out of Logan’s hands, and out the open window that’s next to him. Logan pretends to be unaffected, but in the next moment his hands are around Scott’s throat. The smile on Scott’s face is just making Logan tighten his grip.

 

“Should I do to you what I just did to your cigar, Logan?” he asks him smugly.

 

Logan growls, dropping Scott like a ragdoll. “You owe me. Many.”

 

“Is that so?” Scott rubs his throat. It still hurts, no matter how smug he’s acting. “I think you rather owe _me_ for saving you from having to heal because of an explosion.”

 

“What was that, punk?” Logan’s deadly claws slide out, threatening to slice Scott like paper.

 

Scott laughs, straightening his shirt collar. “I’d like to see you try.”

 

Sam is passing by them, on his way to the recreation room, when he sees claws and glasses aimed dangerously close.

 

“You two.” Sam chuckles. “The least you could do is admit you like each other.”

 

All Charles hears next is Sam running through the hall, and two grown men chasing after him with slightly murderous intent filling their minds.

 

“Now, now, children. Play nice,” Charles calls after them, smiling.

 

*-*-*

 

Hank is sitting on a bench in the middle of Central Park, waiting.  He glances down at his watch; Peter is running late. He’s never late. He pulls out his cellphone to call him, worrying that something may have happened.

 

“Hank,” Peter calls from behind him. Hank stands abruptly, snapping his phone shut. “Sorry, I’m late.”

 

“It’s okay.” He smiles. “I was just going to call you.” He chuckles at the thought; Peter can take care of himself. He was worried for nothing. Hank eyes the coffee cups he set down on the bench. “I think they’re cold now.”

 

Peter rubs the back of his neck. “We can get fresh coffee? My treat.”

 

Hank nods and follows Peter to a privately-owned shop across the street. They settle down in two seats next to the wide window, taking in the view of bustling pedestrians and traffic.

 

Peter takes a long sip of the coffee, keeping it between his hands when he swallows. “So, what did you want to tell me?”

 

“Just some news.” Hank tries the unknown coffee out, unused to anything that isn’t Starbucks or brewed by Charles and Sam. He’s pleasantly surprised by the taste; Peter notices with a grin. “About Dean, Sam, Charles, etc.” He hums, pleased, when the taste coats his chest and stomach with sweet warmth. “You want to know, right?”

 

“Of course!” Peter rubs his palms against the warm cup. It’s getting colder outside but the temperature of the coffee is just right for his skin. “Tell me everything.”

 

Hank starts with Dean and Sam. He tells Peter about how they stumbled upon two mutants in Canada. He says that he wishes he could have helped; could have prevented the two from fighting, but Charles was there, too, anyway – without Erik by his side. Peter’s eyes widen. Hank also mentions in passing, as though it isn’t important, that Charles took in Hank’s ex-co-worker named Scott Summers, and perhaps that’s the real reason Erik left.

 

Peter chokes on his coffee. “Wh-what? You have to tell me the rest.” He feels like he’s listening to a soap opera. Except without the cheating wives, and with bonus life-threatening abilities.

 

Hank pats Peter’s shoulder, wondering if it’s his story or something else that startled him. He continues when Peter settles back in.

 

Then there’s the part where Sam left Dean to go help Charles with his mutant DNA research at the mansion. Erik returned as well, trying to make Charles change his mind, without any luck.

 

And, like another fleeting thought, Hank says: “One of the mutants found in the battle is now living at the mansion. His name is Logan, and he seems to dislike Scott more than Erik did.”

 

Peter shakes his head; what is it with this Scott character that makes everyone dislike him? At first, he thought Erik was just unfriendly to anyone who wasn’t Charles, but then, for a second mutant to also feel the same way, it has to be part of Scott’s doing.

 

“What’s Scott like?” Peter inquires, drinking the last of his coffee.

 

“He’s one of the most responsible, well-grounded people I know.” Hank beams, clearly missing the company of his ex-colleague. “He’s strong and extremely intelligent as well.”

 

Peter nods slowly, wondering about his previous thoughts. Maybe both men are jealous of Scott. But that’s something that’s going to stay in his mind, and his alone. “So what else happened? Or were you finished?”

 

Hank shakes his head. He stares down at the table, burning gaze almost going through it. His Raven, his loving girlfriend, Charles’s sister, had left them both to join Erik’s side of inevitable war.

 

Peter swallows, rubbing Hank’s shoulder gently. “I’m sorry, Hank.”

 

Hank forces his tears back, smiling wryly and gulping down the last of his lukewarm coffee. “I’ll have to take note of this shop.” He looks down at his watch. “Oh, gosh, look at the time. I have to get back to the office.”

 

And Hank stands, stumbling through the entering clients, hurrying to get out of sight before Peter catches him crying. Peter decides he’ll call Hank later and have a long talk about her.

 

Right now, though, there’s someone burning a hole into Peter’s skull. He turns to look out the window, and sees Sylar behind a tree in the park. He sighs, rubbing at his temple; Sylar still has some trust issues to deal with.

 

Peter waves for Sylar to come join him inside after a moment. Sylar freezes; he can’t believe Peter knew he was there the whole time. He thought he was pretty damned good at being inconspicuous. Or maybe Peter just knows him too well by now.

 

Sylar is sitting across from Peter, taking up the spot Hank was just in, in no time at all.

 

Peter gets up to order another two coffees, ignoring the curious way the waitress looks at the different man sitting across from him. He knows she thinks it’s some kind of speed-dating event, but what matters is what’s actually true.

 

Sylar seems to like the coffee, leaning in to lace his fingers with Peter’s free hand, an innocent smile gracing his lips. Peter thinks of how much he likes Sylar, how much Erik probably loved - and still does -Charles, and it hurts his head.

 

He can’t imagine letting Sylar turn back into the monster he once was. And even if one day they decide to disagree on something, which they most likely will, he wouldn’t let Sylar get far enough to take the road Erik is going down.

 

Peter smiles when Sylar kisses the top of his hand.

 

Even if it killed Peter, he wouldn’t let Sylar return to that dark past. Sylar is just like him: powerful and confused. He’s trying to find a way to live with all the voices in his head. It’s just like the anger Peter fights to keep in check each and every day. Sylar had simply let it take control of him for a while. But now Peter is here, is with Sylar, and will make sure it never consumes him again.

 

And that’s where Peter and Charles would never come to an agreement. You don’t let the one you love go when they’re wrong, you drag them closer. You show them how good it can feel to be on the right side.

 

*-*-*

 

Sam hates to admit it, but he’s glad to return to the motel rooms and the beloved Impala. He can’t exactly say it’s home because they don’t live anywhere in particular, but it’s as close as he’ll ever get. It’s close enough, if you ask him.

 

It wasn’t hard to find Dean since he didn’t go on any jobs like he said he would. Sam figured that out even before he left.

 

He expects to see Dean passed out. He almost expects that he’s wearing Sam’s underwear, and not his own (he’s never been good with laundry). He thought probably Castiel would be keeping him company, but he did _not_ expect the angel to be passed out, half dressed, and cuddling with Dean.

 

Sam considers taking a picture for a moment, but changes his mind. Dean won’t be happy if Sam does that. Then, remembering all the times Dean called Sam a girl, he decides he doesn’t give a shit. He turns around to search through his bag for his cell phone, but Castiel is already gone when he finds it.

 

Dean startles at the sound of fluttering wings, rubbing his eyes until he can see less than 4 people standing in front of him. “Sammy?”

 

“Yeah, it’s me.” Sam smirks, the mental image of the two lovebirds still stuck in his head. “Didn’t miss me too much, did you?”

 

“I missed you a whole lot,” Dean teases, stretching out on his bed. “But I dealt with it.”

 

“I see that.” Sam crosses his arms. Tilting his head, trying to understand why Dean’s grinning from ear to ear, he leans against the doorway. “Do I want to ask why you look like you’re about to cackle?”

 

“I’m guessing you don’t.” He jumps out of bed, stretching his legs. “But I can tell you anyway?”

 

“I’ll pass.” Sam grabs his bag and drops it on his bed before he escapes to the bathroom.

 

Dean mumbles something about Sam being a chicken, but the comment is ignored. Like most of Dean’s comments.

 

Dean rummages through the drawers now that he can see straight, and picks out something to wear to go back on the road, throwing the rest in his bag. He can’t remember why he’s been wearing different pairs of Sam’s briefs every day, but Castiel seems to enjoy the feel of them more than his own boxer shorts. Dean kind of agrees.

 

Sam appears with his hair less tussled, and his skin looking less shiny. He tries not to glare at Dean when he sees the dirty underwear pile on the floor; they’re all Sam’s.

 

“Thanks,” Sam says sarcastically. “I was really looking forward to doing laundry as soon as I got back.”

 

“You don’t have to do it now, Sammy.” Dean smirks. “We’re going on a job now. Hope you didn’t do anything too strenuous with your foreign boyfriend.”

 

“You wish,” Sam quips. “Where are we going? Hunting, right?”

 

“Better.” Dean shows Sam a clipping he found in an international newspaper the other day. “The authorities up in England have been calling her ‘Psylocke’ because one minute they think they have her, and the next she has their minds trapped.”

 

“A mutant?” Sam asks incredulously. “You wanna go after a mutant? In England?”

 

“Hell.” Dean puts the clipping in his back pocket. “I want to go after all mutants anywhere that are as _hot_ as that chick.”

 

Sam shakes his head, but he knows Dean isn’t serious. He seems to be pretty intimate with Castiel. “We might need Charles’s help.”

 

“You should call him then.” Dean throws the last of his clothes in his bag. “But I’m leaving right now.”

 

Sam wonders if this is a way to get back at Sam for leaving or if it’s to get back at Castiel for flying off without saying a word.


	11. Family Reunion of Sorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One thing's for certain: things will never be the way they once were.

It’s been a considerably long time since Hank has visited the mansion, but he thought, after everything he and Peter discussed in New York – about Dean, Sam, Sylar – that it was time to visit his close friend Charles now.

 

\---

 

When he gets there, he doesn’t expect the amount of teenagers running around, and all the new faces that he hasn’t had the chance to meet yet. Charles didn’t have time to send him an email about all of the new mutants who’ve shown up at the mansion, but Hank kind of wishes he did, because it’s overwhelming.

 

As he walks into the kitchen – no one having greeted him at the door – he finds Charles there preparing tea. And he turns, unsurprised of course, greeting Hank with a nice, warm hug. He pulls away slowly, patting Hank’s shoulders.

 

“I’m so glad to see you here, Hank. It’s been too long.” He pours them both a cup of tea. “Also, I believe I’ve taken in too many stray mutants this time.”

 

Hank sighs, sipping at his tea. “You know I can’t help you, Charles. I work for the government now…”

 

Charles nods, bringing his cup of tea up to his lips. “Yes, of course.” He takes a small sip. “I understand. But perhaps you know of someone who could lend a hand from time to time? Or at least temporarily, until I can fine some older mutants with more experience blending in to help take care of these young ones.”

 

Hank takes a deep breath, rolling his cup between his palms. “I - I’ll see what I can do. I’ll think about it, okay?”

 

\---

 

Later, Scott finds out Hank is in the mansion, and tracks him down to say his part. He greets him with a firm handshake and a bright smile.

 

“I want you to meet someone, Hank,” Scott says, pointing to an unfamiliar, blond man next to him. “This is my brother Alex.”

 

Hank feels his heart clench, his pulse speeding up, and his stomach turning around and around… Alex is tall, young – well, younger than Scott – and far too smug. He seems like a typical teenager, but Hank knows he must have some kind of deadly power; otherwise, he wouldn’t be here.

 

It’s probably something similar to Scott’s power because they’re related. Hank finds himself very curious about what the ability could be, but even more curious about the man who controls it.

 

Alex crosses his arms, scanning Hank up and down. “Yo, bozo. I heard a lot about you. You and my bro are nerd-buddies, aren’t you?”

 

And Hank sort of cringes at the expression, but he understands that he and Scott would be considered the boring, predictable, reliable guys to people like Alex. They’re not as exciting as Logan or anyone else with large personalities, and that’s fine with Hank, really. He just hoped he could convince Alex he could be fun to know, too.

 

Scott clears his throat when he sees Hank flushing. “I’ll leave you two alone. I have some students to attend to.”

 

That leaves Hank and Alex talking, by themselves, in the library. Hank asks Alex how he likes this institute, and Alex asks about Hank’s studies at Oxford. Then, when Hank finally builds up the nerve to ask about powers, Alex doesn’t hesitate to answer anything about them.

 

“I do have the same type of powers as Scott, but they’re just straight from inside me. They don’t come out like a laser, like a canon or whatever. It comes out like…I want to say hula hoops, but that sounds gay.”

 

“Rings of power?” Hank offers, smiling politely.

 

“Yeah, exactly like that.” Alex smiles back, patting Hank on the back. “I got lucky, I guess.”

 

And he did. Not only because of the nature of his power, but because of the time when it manifested itself. It came on much sooner than Scott’s did, which gave him time to catch it before people got hurt, or the word started to spread.

 

“You _are_ lucky. You have a brother who’s extremely caring and understanding, and he’s gone through almost the same thing you are right now.” He wrings his hands together, thinking about life before Sam and Charles. “I never had anyone like him growing up.”

 

Hank clears his throat when Alex looks guilty. There’s really no reason for it; Hank is the one who’s getting a bit emotional.

 

Alex raises a brow, nudging Hank with an elbow. “Oh, getting sad now, bozo?”

 

“I’d prefer you don’t call me that,” Hank replies, feeling his mouth lift at one corner despite himself.

 

“What would you like me to call you then, _bozo_?”

 

Hank sighs, shaking his head. Alex pushes him harder with a shoulder, sticking his tongue out, and looking slightly flirtatious about it. It makes the hair on the back of Hank’s neck stand on edge, until Alex’s arm is wrapping around his shoulders, drawing him in.

 

“I’ll try to remember to call you Hank.”

 

\---

 

After that, Hank goes to find Charles in a hurry. “All right, I’ll stay and help for a little while. But I can’t tell you for how long yet. I need to contact my boss first.” He doesn’t explain to Charles that it’s because he’d like to spend more time with Alex, and get to know him more.

 

And what’s the point when Charles is a telepath, anyway.

 

“Splendid, Hank! I’m sure the students will love you.”

 

\---

 

Meanwhile, Scott and Logan argue about the loaf of bread being finished already – again. And it’s only been a day. There are a few mutants in the kitchen with them, chuckling and eating cereal.

 

“It must’a been one of these kids. You know how teenagers are,” Logan says, leaning his back against the fridge like he’s protecting the food.

 

Scott crosses his arms over his chest. “Or was it you, Logan?”

 

“I don’t waste my time with bread. I go straight for meat. Really raw and bloody.”

 

Scott knows he’s joking, but he still grimaces at the idea of seeing Logan hovered over a rare steak, eating it without a knife or fork. Just _devouring_ it like the carnivore he can be.

 

Logan moves away from the fridge, punching Scott in the shoulder. “You know I’m just joking, bub. Don’t take it so seriously.”

 

“I know,” Scott replies dryly. “But that doesn’t stop me from imagining it. And I have to admit, it doesn’t take much of a stretch.”

 

Logan growls, returns to his spot in front of the fridge, eyeing Scott angrily. Scott just smirks, raising a brow in a challenge. The younger mutants are eating faster now, as if they can sense a fight about to start. Then, when everyone has rushed out, and down the hall, Scott and Logan both breathe out a sigh of relief.

 

They know the kids are far enough now that they can have some privacy; far enough that they can’t hear what’s going on anymore. And, sure, Charles can _always_ hear them, but he hasn’t mentioned anything yet.

 

They begin to move closer to each other, matching grins on their faces, and Logan wraps his arms around Scott, leaving them at the small of his back. He sniffs Scott quietly, fondly, peppering kisses down the side of his face, inhaling the soft, subtle scent of whatever soap Scott uses.

 

“The only thing I would ravish like a beast with raw meat is you, Scott. Not any four-legged animal from the wilderness. It’s not in the kitchen that I become Wolverine, and you know that.”

 

Scott lets out an easy laugh, tangling his fingers in Logan’s hair. “That’s one of the things I love about you.”

 

“Thanks,” Logan gruffs out. “Thanks a lot, Cyclops. It means a lot coming from you. I know you like to be all contained and clean-cut.”

 

Logan pulls Scott in closer, making Scott hum when their hips brush against each other’s. Scott leans his forehead against Logan’s, eyes half-lidded under the red of his glasses. Logan is smiling wider, open and dorky like he never looks around anyone else. It’s intimate like it would be with a couple who’ve been together for decades, not months.

 

No one can tease them when they’re like this, fortunately – and they most certainly would if given the chance – because they don’t get the privilege of seeing them both vulnerable and in love like this. They hide it, they protect it; they make sure that not a soul knows about this connection they’ve built.

 

And when they want to be together, they wait until very late at night, when everyone is asleep. They’re quiet enough that no one wakes up, and no one ever realizes what they spend their night doing.

 

Well, except Charles again, but he wouldn’t tell anyone. There’d be no thrill to have anyway, since no one would believe him.

 

\---

 

After a few days of Hank integrating himself among the teenagers, getting to know Alex better, and spending more time with Logan, Peter and Sylar stop by – together of course – excited and without an invitation. Charles is shocked at first to see Sylar, but when he takes a peek inside his mind, he’s completely at ease.

 

“I must congratulate you, my friend.” He claps Peter on the back a bit roughly. “I don’t know how you’ve done it, but it is fantastic.” His mind is already whirling through all the possibilities now that Sylar is reformed and happier than ever. He wonders if he can convince them to stay, even if only short term, to help out with some of the more difficult cases.

 

“I may need a bit of assistance because the situation here is getting somewhat out of hand. There are a tad too many mutants for me to handle alone, you see.”

 

It was three people at first, but now it’s fifteen or more.  And Charles can’t even be sure of the amount because it changes every day – usually more mutants coming to stay at the mansion, and never leaving.

 

“I think you should let Sylar talk to some of them. He understands what it’s like to be an outcast more than I do. He can get them through it better,” Peter explains, stroking down Sylar’s arm.

 

Sylar gazes at Peter fondly, whispering ‘ _I love you’_ in his ear.

 

Charles wonders if he’ll ever have that again.

 

\---

 

They don’t waste any time before helping out.

 

Sylar meets Marie, who her friends – including Logan who found her – call _Rogue_. She isn’t comfortable with touching people, and with good reason, but Sylar tries to help her feel less frightened about it.

 

“It’s a good thing, you know. If you can use your powers properly, you won’t have to be afraid of getting close to people. Just because you can’t touch them, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try to make friends anyway.”

 

“I have some friends…”

 

“I know you do. But you also know there are other ways to get close to people. I know from experience.” Sylar smirks, and Marie tilts her head. “It took a long time for Peter to let me do anything remotely personal.”

 

Marie laughs, covering her mouth with her gloved hand. “I don’t think he’d like you saying that.”

 

“Well, he loves me now, so he deals with it.”

 

“I see what you mean.” She smiles, rubbing her hands against her knees. “Thank you, Sylar.”

 

“I’m glad to help.” And he truly is; he’s happy he can help people like him get through a rough time in their life, and avoid ending up in a bad place. Not everyone will be lucky enough to find their own Peter.

 

\---

 

John is the next one Sylar visits – after having lunch with Peter and tousling his hair because of a very intimate kiss.

 

John doesn’t start fire, but he can control it like the fingers on his hand. Sylar is fascinated by John’s gift at first, and almost asks if he can add it to his collection, but then he realizes he doesn’t _need_ it. He already has enough to keep him satisfied; he doesn’t feel a craving so bad that he would be willing to kill to have this one. That’s not how he is anymore.

 

He tells John, “I had trouble with my family like you did. My mom didn’t want me to do these things that came naturally, and it turned out badly. Worse than it did with you.”

 

“Yeah, well, I just want to be normal sometimes. You know?” John says, flicking his lighter open and closed.

 

“I can only give you some advice.” He opens John’s lighter and gestures for him to take the fire. “You’ve been given something. You should use it for whatever good you can think of. Use it for things that will help. Things that will make you feel good about yourself in the end.”

 

John lets the fire roll around his fingertips, balling up in his palm, dancing around his skin like an innocent sprite.

 

“I’ve done bad things with my powers. Things I wish I could forget. But that was before I met Peter and he showed me how to become someone _better_. The terrible crimes I committed were never fulfilling in the long-term, and no one wants to spend their life running from the police,” Sylar admits, passing his fingertips over the tiny flame.

 

“I’m not so sure about that. I mean, don’t get me wrong, but you seem pretty harmless,” John says jokingly, letting the fire encircle his hand.

 

“If you knew me before I met Peter, you wouldn’t want to be in the same room as me right now. Charles, who’s also a selfless person, was nice enough to forgive me, but sometimes I wonder if I deserve it.”

 

John looks completely taken aback, eyes darting from one of Sylar’s eyes to the other, mind racing with questions. “Really? You were _that_ bad? Xavier seems like a saint to me. How could he not forgive you?”

 

Sylar laughs, nodding. “Oh, yeah. I was worse than you could ever be. Worse than anything you can imagine. Worse than if Logan decided to go on Erik’s side one day.” He leans in, whispering, “They were a group of people, and they couldn’t stop me. They needed an angel to get me away.”

 

“ _Angel_?” John asks, incredulous.

 

Peter steps into the room, squeezing Sylar’s shoulder in warning. “Okay, don’t tell him about angels. You’re gonna scare him.”

 

Marie, who was walking past in the hall, sneaks into the room when she hears ‘angel’. “But there’s a mutant here named Angel. Well, actually, it’s Warren. Is it him you’re talking about? I didn’t know he was that strong.”

 

“No, we’re talking about a _real_ angel,” Sylar replies gleefully. Peter gives Sylar a dark look, frowning. “But never mind, guys. Go have some fun now.”

 

Once Marie and John are far enough, Peter sits in Sylar’s lap, dragging his nails across Sylar’s scalp. “This is for leaving me with blue balls earlier.” He kisses Sylar breathless; bruising his lips, grinding down against his lap, and then leaves the room without saying another word.

 

“Sometimes I wonder if you aren’t the bad one, Peter!” Sylar calls after him, the bulge in his pants aching for more.

*-*-*

 

Sam calls Charles soon after Dean’s decided they’re going on that hunt.

 

“Hey, Charles. How are you?”

 

“Sam! How wonderful to speak to you again. Miss me already?”

 

“Actually, Dean and I are headed your way, and we were wondering if you could give us a lift.”

 

“Is it about that mutant called Psylocke? I’ve been keeping an eye on her. She’s feisty more than anything else, but she’s attracted a bit too much attention to herself lately.”

 

“Yeah, it’s about her. We could try to get her to the mansion for you. So, can you help?”

 

“Just a moment, I’ll ask Scott if he can fly over to you.”

 

_“Scott, can you bring Sam and his brother here?”_

 

There’s some shuffling, and then Scott’s on the line. “I don’t mind, but I need enough space to land--”

 

But Hank steals the phone away before Scott can finish the sentence. “I’ll come get you guys, personally. Don’t tell Charles, but I need a break from the teenagers here.”

 

“Hank, you’re barely older than they are,” Sam teases, smiling against the receiver. He frowns when Dean rolls his eyes, pulling on his leather jacket.

 

Hank laughs, whispering his reply of, “That’s true. And maybe we can have that drink together now. You know, just the two of us like you wanted to years ago.”

 

(Hank needs it so he can deal with the stress of a mansion full of mutants, and his huge, world-shattering crush on Alex. Plus, he can use it as a chance to ask Sam for advice on how to woo Alex.)

 

“Sounds good,” Sam says enthusiastically. _“_ See you in a bit, I guess _?_ ”

 

“Definitely, Sam,” Hank says, hanging up the phone.

\---

 

Dean looks back at the room once in the doorway. He waits for Sam to be out the door before he pulls the newspaper clipping back out of his pocket, and throws it in the garbage. She’s definitely attractive, obviously smart, but she’s nowhere near Castiel’s level. She couldn’t even try to compete for Dean’s affection because that awkward angel, with his painfully blue eyes, is holding on to most of Dean’s heart right now.

 

Almost more of it than his family is.

 

Dean starts the car and throws his bag in the backseat. They have to drive out to an open area so Hank can pick them up, and the best part is that Hank said the Impala would probably fit in the plane. There’s nothing like going abroad and still being able to drag along sweet, familiar comforts.

 

Sam forgot his phone in the motel, so he rushes back in. Dean can’t wait to leave though; he’s excited to get back out on the road. Castiel is away for now, but he’ll surely be back once Dean wants to see him – which is exactly how Dean’s always wanted it to be.

 

You know how it is, being a free-spirit and all.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments appreciated, and don't forget to check out [kymericl's](http://kymericl.livejournal.com/33552.html) journal. :)


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